The Heart of Erebor
by cheekyrox
Summary: 'He could stand the wild light in his uncle's gaze. He withstood the crazed glint that entered the ravenous stares of his companions. But when that madness seeped also into the eyes of his own beloved brother, he knew something had to be done. He just wasn't expecting it to be this.'-The gold sickness of Erebor claims one more, and the path of destiny is irrevocably changed.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: 'He could stand the wild light in his uncle's gaze. He withstood the crazed glint that entered the ravenous stares of his companions. He endured seeing the dragon's greed take them all. But when that madness seeped also into the eyes of his own beloved brother, he knew something had to be done. He just wasn't expecting it to be ****_this_****.'-The gold sickness of Erebor claims one more, and the path of destiny is irrevocably changed.**

**Inspired by the following quote from 'The Hobbit': "So grim had Thorin become, that even if they had wished, the others would not have dared to find fault with him; but indeed most of them seemed to share his mind-except perhaps old fat Bombur and Fili and Kili."**

**A/N: I have stories to update, PMs to answer, and oneshots to write. This is not accomplishing any of those things. That said, this story has been sitting on my harddrive for the better part of twelve months, and I have nothing better to do than give myself even more work. To those waiting for updates, they are coming... slowly. Let's just say the Holiday Season is eating all my time. I'm off work in two days, maybe then I'll have the time to write something new. For now, enjoy this year old relic.**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 1**

Was it wrong to wish for madness?

Kili was certain it could not be right, at least, but was it wrong? Was it wrong to wish to share in the euphoria and happiness that seemed so easily shared between the other members of the Company? Was it wrong to wish that the same odd gleam that had entered their eyes also shone in his own when he met his reflection's gaze in a flawless bauble? Was it wrong to wish that he had felt anything but dread when his brother's laughter rang out in the great treasure rooms of Erebor to a chorus of clinking gold?

It could not be _right_, but was it _wrong_?

Troubled by dark thoughts, he had watched them pour over the gold and treasures of Erebor for hours on end, their eyes alight with a fire that would not dim. With a vague and growing sense of unease, he had watched his uncle smile over some trinket with a warmth once reserved for his family, and shuddered as he remembered seeing that same smile on Thorin's face when he stepped forward to take the exiled King's cloak that far-off day when they had gathered in Bag End. A growing hatred of the dragon's treasure festering in his heart, he had watched them all succumb to that which had first brought evil into the mountain, Thror's fall from grace into the sour pit of insanity brushed aside and forgotten.

He had watched, and witnessed, and stood by in silence, knowing it was not his place to intervene. That, no matter how much the dragon's treasure appeared to him as a temptation wrought from shadow, he could not press his own concerns on those who were his elders in both age and experience. Though his heart cried out in protest, and every instinct inside of him commanded him to be away from this place and to take his fellows with him, he could and _had_ done nothing but watch, because the right was not his to declare this madness, and, even as he saw the slow advance of the foreign and unwelcome glint in his uncle's eyes, he still could not bring himself to go against Thorin.

Not, at least, until he lost Fili to the treasure as well.

His elder brother had at first appeared to be as resilient to its influence as he himself was, and they had shared their mounting concern in hushed tones over the campfire each night. Fili had even resolved to try and speak with their uncle, to support Bilbo, who was always trying to sway the thoughts of the dwarves from the treasure to matters the hobbit considered more important. But that had never happened, and the final blow to Kili's strained limit came when Fili, his own _brother_, received a beautifully forged blade with a jewel encrusted handle as a gift from their uncle, and promptly fell to the same madness as the rest.

Kili could do nothing but stand by and watchin horror, any attempt to caution, to warn, to divert stopped, cut off, or simply ignored. His words fell on deaf ears, his pleas received no response but their own echoes in the empty places that lay beneath the hollow mountain, and carved their deep recesses in his own chest. He longed for a warm glance from his uncle. A grin from his brother. A hand on the shoulder as one or the other passed him by. But it was like he had become invisible, as unseen as Bilbo was when wearing his treasured ring, and the others could not see him for the riches that blinded their eyes. He was alone, utterly, utterly _alone_, and he began to wish desperately to be able to feel what they felt. To share the zealous greed that had overtaken them all. But he could not, and thus he wished for madness, because it seemed the only thing that could make him oblivious to the sickness taking all who surrounded him.

Matters only grew worse when news of Smaug's death reached them. What should have been reason for celebration – the dragon's death, at long, long last – became the very opposite, for the great beast had not been slain by their hand, and Roac spoke of armed men and elves coming to claim their own reward from the mountain. Thorin's rapturous mood had darkened suddenly at the thought of outsiders daring to stake a claim on the great wealth he had _promised _them for their aid, and Kili had felt no relief when the uncrowned King's thoughts drifted away from gold and gemstones, because they turned instead to the defence of his reclaimed kingdom. The gates of Erebor had been shattered a second time when Smaug took flight, and were now beyond repair, so Thorin had ordered the bridge spanning the small stream at the great city's entrance destroyed, and the stream itself dammed, creating a large pool before Erebor's face, with only a narrow span of dry land along the southern spur by which an approach could be made, unless one felt inclined to swim. The empty arch where the gates had once stood was then filled with a great wall constructed from the rubble, and Kili had watched the last block fall into place with a great sense of dread.

There would be no leaving the mountain now. For any of them.

Their work had not been long completed when the first delegation of men and elves arrived and proclaimed both their surprise that the dwarves had survived and their concern as to why Thorin had chosen to seal himself inside his own kingdom. Kili listened on in incredulous wonder as his uncle accused them all of treachery and attempted thievery, ignored every plea and demand made, no matter that some were well founded, and ordered the withdrawal of all from the valley. He did not need to hear the response of their neighbours to know such a command would not be followed, and it was with a heavy heart that he returned to the blazing fire that lightened one of the alcoves in the great entrance hall, taking a spot a fair distance from the others. Once, Fili would have moved immediately to his side and sought to discover what was amiss, but his brother did not even glance his way this night, and he was left to his own dark thoughts.

Kili had always been observant. Growing up in a village where all were larger and most a good deal stronger than he it had been a necessary skill. He had never desired to depend upon his brother for protection, and had learnt to make use of sharp words and swift feet to defend himself from the inevitable tormentors that populated every settlement in the world. He had learnt to spot the places where trouble lingered, and, if he didn't always avoid them, at least he knew they were there. As he grew older and taller he had found himself with less and less concern for those whose taunting and bullying had taught lessons that were swiftly learned, and he had turned his honed observational skills to other pursuits. His archery, tracking skills, and even his ability to navigate a foreign market place had all benefitted from his earlier experiences, and, even if he did not realize the significance of some things until after they had passed, he rarely missed them entirely, the incident with the trolls and the ponies notwithstanding.

He had never been told the story of Thror's descent into madness in its entirety, but young ears are often sharper than the elder generation expect, and Kili had learnt a great deal by keeping his pricked. He knew that the gold sickness had led Thror to run first to his gold instead of his people when the dragon came. He knew the King's pining for his lost riches and his son's failing attempts to direct his attention to where it rightfully belonged had led to a great deal of responsibility falling on Thorin's shoulders far earlier than it should have. He knew Thror's madness had led him to try and reclaim Moria at the cost of his own life and those of countless numbers of his kin. He knew how heavily the grief and losses of that day still weighed upon his uncle, and could well recall the darkness that took Thorin on the anniversary of that bloody massacre each year.

Which is why he could not understand his uncle's determination to guard his hoard at the risk of a bloody war. Thorin, out of all their company, should have been the least willing to see the reclamation of Erebor tainted by needless violence. Should have known that enough blood had been spilt for the mountain's treasure, that of both man and dwarf, to last an age. But pride – _madness _– stayed Thorin's hand and refused to bend even in the slightest, not even to save lives, and Kili looked upon his uncle and no longer saw the great dwarf he had been in awe of since he was old enough to understand the rawness of the exiled King's power, but a dwarf he now both feared of and for. Thorin was hurtling down a steep path to a war they could not possibly hope to win, and Kili could do nothing but brace himself for the death that was sure to come.

Shifting his weight, he let his gaze wander from the glow of the flames across those who had taken their seats around him. Even here and now, with the threat of an army on their doorstep, they were not free of the lure of the treasure, each of them bearing either a weapon or trinket from the pile to examine in the glow of the blaze, their eyes gleaming with a golden hue. Fili had his new blade balanced across his knees, his fingers tracing the jewels that were inlaid in the handle, and, seeing the rapt look on his brother's face, Kili could stand it no longer. Rising swiftly and silently, he abandoned the lit alcove, taking the first passageway he knew for certain would not take him to the treasury, and hastening along its path. At length he found himself standing on a section of the wall set slightly to the side and above the front gate, a stiff breeze flowing between the weatherworn parapets, and throwing loose strands of hair across his face.

He sucked in a sharp, gulping breath, fighting back tears as he stared across the barren lands directly outside the mountain to fires that shone forth from the camps of their enemies. _Enemies_. Not goblins or orcs, but men and elves, living creatures who should not have been touched by the shadow of darkness, now driven to this senseless quarrel. And for what was this battle to be fought? A pile of gold from which they could easily spare enough to appease their neighbours? Money that could be spent in exchange for food, clothing, and the many other things that would be needed to make the mountain liveable again? They could not eat gold, as Bombur had muttered earlier that night whilst fixing another tasteless meal of _cram_, and all the riches of Erebor would do them no good if they starved to death.

Was this, he wondered, what his uncle had meant when he expressed his doubts that Kili was old enough to accompany him on this quest? Had it not been doubt of his abilities in the field, but rather a question as to his devotion to the gold that had stolen the hearts of the entire Company with a single glance? Was he, then, not a true heir of Durin, because he did not heed the siren call of a treasure that would be the death of them all? He did not know. The answers eluded him, and he wanted nothing more than to have never set eyes on Erebor. It was not a feeling fit for an heir of Durin to entertain, but he felt it nonetheless, and could no more _stop_ himself from feeling it than he could stop the others from trading their lives for a pile of precious metal that would be useless to them once they had passed on.

Stepping to the edge of the wall, he turned his back to the horizon, sliding down the parapets until he was seated with his back to the roughened stone as he buried his face in his hands and wept silently. He had never felt so lost as he did now, so small in comparison to the events unfolding around him. They had been hunted, attacked, thwarted, and imprisoned at every turn on their quest to reach the mountain, and now that they were here, at the end of their journey, they faced a danger far greater than any they had surpassed thus far. If Dain came and this turned to war… Kili could not even imagine what might become of them all, but he knew any path that led to bloodshed between them and those who should have been their allies would not give way to a happy ending.

When Thorin had called all those willing to answer together to march upon Erebor, Kili had been as eager as any other to be at the exiled King's right hand. He had been young and foolish, unable to foresee the many dangers that would come, and he could look back now and almost smile at his own naivety in thinking the journey would be an easy one. But, even with all he had faced, if given the opportunity to travel back through time Kili would still not have remained behind in Erud Luin as Thorin had once suggested. He would happily go up against the trolls a second time, dodge stone giants in the Misty Mountains, face the threat of the Goblin King and his minions, fight the spiders of Mirkwood, escape the elven King's dungeon, and even challenge Smaug himself. All these things he would face, and face willingly, but the idea of war… the very _thought_ of it unleashed a fear within him stronger than any he had ever felt before. Any he had thought it _possible_ to feel.

It was a paralysing feeling. A terror so great it formed a dark and bottomless hole that effortlessly swallowed every shred of courage he possessed, and left him trembling like a frightened child without a soul to comfort him. He wanted Thorin. He wanted Fili. But most of all he wanted to be away from this mountain, and the crushing weight of the dragon's curse that had fallen upon it and the riches it held. He would have paid any price for that. For the chance to see his kin and friends free of the bewitchment.

Deep in his own misery, he did not heed the slight scuffle of unshod feet on stone, nor did he notice the shadow that fell across his seated position, and it was not until a soft voice interrupted his solitude that he pulled himself far enough from his dolour to register the presence of another.

"Kili?"

He lowered his hands and opened his eyes, staring blankly at the lower half of the hobbit's waistcoat. For a brief moment, he had almost dared to hope it was his brother who had come in search of him, as it _should _have been, but the madness had gripped Fili in a hold as tight as that it held over Thorin, and gold lingered more often now in his brother's thoughts than Kili himself. He choked on that thought, fighting another exhibition of his grief, and the fabric obscuring his vision shifted as Bilbo edged his weight from foot to foot, breaking the silence again a moment later.

"I… That is to say… Are you alright?"

"Are any of us?" he retorted blankly, letting his head fall back against the stone as he closed his eyes, hoping the coolness radiating off the mountain's roots would ease the unrelenting, throbbing ache in his head. He could already hear the beat of war drums inside his skull, and thought he might be going mad himself. Mad with _fear_. "An army sits on our doorstep, Master Burglar, and, unless that magic ring of yours has more tricks than you have told, I doubt even you can make them disappear."

It occurred to him then that even Bilbo had his trinket, even if not taken from the hoard of Erebor. The thought did not bring him comfort.

"Is it really going to come to war, though?" Bilbo asked, traces of the more nervous personality he had been when he joined their Company showing through in that single question. "Over a little gold? I mean, that bowman _did_ kill the dragon, after all. There should be a reward for that, shouldn't there?"

"There should." Kili agreed listlessly, willing to give up his own share of the treasures of Erebor, or more, to make this entire mess go away. He just wanted this to _stop_. All of it.

"And it's not like there isn't gold enough to spare," Bilbo continued, as though speaking to himself. "Thorin could pay them enough to build their city thrice over and still be one of the richest kings in Middle Earth, I'm sure."

"You're probably right." Kili didn't know any more of the wealth of kings than Bilbo, but Erebor's had always been legendary, and he doubted the tribute the people of Laketown sought would cause it to cease being so.

Bilbo, actually heeding his response this time, was silent for a moment, then spoke, "You haven't… haven't got what the others have, do you?"

Lifting his head slightly, Kili finally met Bilbo's anxious gaze, trying not to sound as bitter as he felt as he responded, "Why? What exactly do they _have_, Master Baggins?"

"Well, I don't know, exactly," Bilbo admitted hesitantly. "But the way they look at that treasure…. and talk about it… and _hoard _it. It… it reminds me of a dragon, really, meaning no offense, of course."

"Of course," Kili mocked wearily. "It is not at all offensive to be compared to the scaled reptile that burned our home and threw us out of it before either myself or my brother was born."

"I didn't meant it like that." The hobbit frowned. "I just…"

"I know what you 'just', Bilbo," Kili sighed, taking pity on the hobbit, and deciding sharing his misery around was not making him feel any better. "You are not wrong." Staring past the Halfling and into the darkness, Kili tried to picture what his uncle's face had looked like before the gold fervour hit him. What the smile his brother reserved especially for him had reminded him of whenever it lit Fili's face. He could not recall either, and despair washed back in to claim him. "It is the gold sickness, I believe, though I have never seen it before myself, and I was never told it took to dwarves in droves. Thror had it, though Thorin spoke very little of what it did to him."

"Drove him to make enemies where he could made friends, perhaps?" Bilbo suggested subduedly. "To war?"

"Nothing so drastic." Kili offered him a wry smile. "That was saved for us."

"Isn't there something we can do, though?" the hobbit asked, always the optimist. "Some way we can convince them to change their minds before it's too late?"

"I don't think there's a cure, Bilbo," Kili whispered quietly, lowering his gaze to the stone beneath him. "I don't think we can fix this. In a few days or less, Dain will be here, and there will be war."

Cold spread through him like a winter chill, and he shivered, feeling much younger than he had a right to. He was an heir of Durin, third in line to the throne, and nephew to Thorin Oakenshield, but he was _scared_. Scared beyond reckoning. He had seen battle before the quest to Erebor, and plenty on the road, yet the thought of an outright war, and not just a skirmish with a rogue band of orcs or goblins, was enough to almost make him quake in terror.

"Well, there must be _something_ Thorin would be willing to trade for peace," Bilbo persisted, not so easily deterred. "Something he values enough that it would shake him out of this madness."

"The Arkenstone," Kili breathed in slowly, considering that perhaps he was not so free of madness as he thought. "He might…" His words tasted like treachery, but he uttered them nonetheless. _Any price_, he had told himself. But this? Could he pay this? "He might be willing to trade for that, but the men and elves do not possess it, and, knowing my uncle as I do, he could just as likely grow all the more stubborn if they did."

"But there's a chance?"

The question sounded innocent enough, but there was an odd light in Bilbo's eyes. It was not the gold sickness Kili constantly saw in the eyes of the others, but a different kind of madness, and the archer swallowed uncomfortably, wondering what he had just unleashed.

"A small one, maybe."

Bilbo nodded to himself, turning away from Kili to look out across the plain. His face was pulled into a deep, pensive frown, and Kili thought it best to leave him to his thoughts as he turned to his own. He should have returned to the others by now, ready for the doling out of the night-time watch, but he could not bring himself to move, struck by an utter weariness that was more of the heart than the body.

"Kili?" Bilbo's voice, soft but determined, cleaved through the silence, sounding very small beneath the utter stillness that had reigned of late over the mountain. "Would you?"

Confused, he turned to stare up at the Company's burglar, who was now leaning against the damaged parapets. "Would I what?"

"Trade the Arkenstone for peace?"

It was a momentous question, and he considered it carefully before making any sort of response. Fili, had he been himself, would no doubt have laughed at _Kili_ taking the time to think his answer through, but this quest and the danger involved had curbed much of his youthful brashness, and what he had still possessed when they reached the mountain, which, to be fair, had still been a goodly amount, had been swallowed swiftly by the grim depths he could not escape. But, how to answer Bilbo?

"I don't know," he said at last, in a hushed tone. "It is the crowning glory of Erebor, the Heart of the Mountain, the King's stone. To Thorin it is worth more than any of the gold we have yet seen. I do not know if I could simply give it away as a means of pacifying our neighbours, no matter how righteous some of their grievances might be."

"And what about what you said before?" Bilbo's mind was running swiftly, Kili could tell just from seeing that familiar spark in the hobbit's eyes, but he daren't yet guess what the little fellow was planning. "About Thorin perhaps granting gold to the men of Laketown if it was in exchange for the Arkenstone?"

"_Maybe_," he emphasized. "I said maybe, and this is all for naught regardless. They do not have the stone."

Bilbo shook his head, waving his hands in impatient agitation. "But what if they _did_? You said yourself it is worth more to Thorin than all the gold in the mountain. If those men had the Arkenstone, Thorin would pay for it with gold. The men would have their treasure, Thorin would have the Heart of the Mountain, and all would be well."

Kili doubted things would be resolved so easily, but refrained from saying as much.

"What are you saying, Bilbo?" he asked cautiously, wary of the reply.

"Look," the hobbit began pragmatically. "So far as I can tell, this 'sickness' that has stricken the others is going to make them quite happy to sit here beneath the mountain until the day their food runs out and they all die of starvation atop beds of gold, or until Dain arrives and there is a lot of fighting and death. That doesn't seem to me a good way to found a kingdom, or even to reclaim one."

"Blood is never a good way to buy power," Kili answered, certain he had heard the words uttered somewhere before, though he could not recall by whom. "I still do not understand how you mean to remedy that."

"Well," Bilbo hesitated, and the gaze he pinned Kili with was obviously searching, assessing. The young dwarf waited out the hobbit's scrutiny, refusing to lower his gaze, and, at length, Bilbo spoke again. "What if I told you I had in my possession something that could quite easily turn the tide of this whole sorry affair?"

Fili may have accused his brother on numerous occasions of lacking tact, subtlety, and all round common sense at times, but Kili was not dull of mind, and he had connected the dots in a matter of seconds, his mouth falling open in astonishment as he gasped.

"Do you mean to tell me…?"

"Yes," Bilbo replied uncomfortably.

"And you never…?"

"No."

"Thorin doesn't…?"

"Of course not!" the hobbit scoffed. "If he did I'm quite certain he'd have had me strung up by now."

"The Arkenstone," Kili said the word reverently, knowing what power the very name of the jewel held over his uncle. "And you want to _give_ it to the army sitting on our doorstep?"

"So that they in turn can trade it for a fair share of the gold," Bilbo explained, his chin set stubbornly. "_Something_ must be done, Kili, or we're all going to end up as dead as that dragon."

It was treachery. It was _worse_ than treachery. It was treason to the dwarf who had all but raised him. To his brother. To every member of the Company and their forefathers before them. The very thought of handing such a prize, the value of which was unnameable, to their enemy was unthinkable, and yet… and yet Kili could not do _nothing_. He could not sit by and watch the growing madness in the faces of all his companions. He could not simply let them die for a pile of cold coins and gemstones that would be worth nothing at all to them once they had passed into the next life.

"What..." he croaked the word, sick to his very stomach, but forced himself to continue. "What do you plan to do?"

"I'll take it to their camp," Bilbo said quickly. "There's no need for you to be involved. I just need you to turn a blind eye during your watch so I can get out unseen. I'll be back long before you're due to wake the next watchman, I promise, and I wouldn't involve you at all if I didn't need a rope to get down. The Ring doesn't hide rope you see, and…"

"I'll go with you, Master Baggins."

"What?" Bilbo stopped in midsentence, clearly surprised, and Kili was equally astonished at his own sudden resolve.

"I'll go with you," he repeated firmly. "The Arkenstone is the heirloom of the House of Durin, that which grants the right to rule, and, if it is to be handed over to men and elves, even if only for a little while, it should be done properly."

"Are you sure?" Bilbo peered at him uncertainly through the gloom. "You don't need to have a part in this, Kili."

"He's my mother's brother," Kili reminded him, rising to his own feet and gazing down at the brave little hobbit. "And this dragon's hoard has changed him, changed them all. I _do_ need to have a part in this."

"Well, if you're sure…" Bilbo trailed away, still eyeing him uncertainly.

"I am sure," Kili declared with a confidence that was wholly absent inside of him. "Now, come. We'd best go down, or I may end up having no watch at all tonight."

Was it wrong to wish for madness?

Yes.

Yes, it was.

For madness had already taken him.


	2. Chapter 2

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 2**

He did not sleep at all that night, lying stiff as stone on his bedroll and staring blankly at the wall towards which he had pointed himself. He couldn't bear to look at the other members of the Company, the thought of what he planned to do weighing heavily on his mind, and his stomach churning uncomfortably with more than just the familiar gnawing of a not-quite-satisfied hunger. His resolve wavered, dissolved, and was firm once more all in the matter of a few seconds, and he did not know if he could truly stand atop that wall and go with Bilbo as he had promised. He did not want to see it come to war, and something, somewhere inside of him knew it _mustn't_, but to resort to such an act of betrayal… It _burned_ him, scalding his insides to the point he had hardly been able to touch his meal at suppertime, and the little he had managed to swallow sat like a stone in his stomach.

He clenched his eyes shut as he heard footsteps approaching, and a grip he would have known anywhere landed on his shoulder. Fili must have known by the sheer amount of tension in his form that his brother was not sleeping, and was certainly not at peace, and, as he rolled over to meet his brother's blue eyed gaze Kili found himself wildly hoping that his sibling would ask what was wrong. Would stop him from even having to go through with any of this by proving that he was still the brother Kili knew and loved.

"It's your watch," Fili told him, dashing with those three simple words each and every hope his younger sibling had dared to nurse. Kili dropped his gaze to the floor, biting his lip as he simply nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. Fili lingered but a moment longer, before his hand slid away and he made his way towards his own bedroll.

Guilt clawing at his insides and ravaging his mind, Kili climbed to his feet, slinging the bow, sheath, and quiver he had been forced to replicate in Laketown after losing the originals in Mirkwood over his shoulder, then making his way to the stairs leading up to the portion of the wall that lay directly above Erebor's front gate. Lingering on the lowest step, he cast one last look back over the Company arrayed across the stone hall, each of them lost in slumber, wandering through dreams that were no doubt as full of riches as every waking moment, before turning his back on them all and climbing out into the night air.

There was no sign of Bilbo atop the parapets, and Kili was forced to remind himself that they had agreed to wait a while after Kili's watch started before making their move. Restlessly, he marched back and forth across the stone balcony above the shorn up gates, his gaze never straying far from the twinkling lights further down the valley. That was his destination on this night, the enemy camp, and he had never been more loathe to reach his journey's end. This would be but a short trip, nothing like the intrepid quest that had led them to Erebor's doorstep, but it seemed so much more momentous somehow. Kili supposed that the act of betraying all oaths and bonds he had ever made was meant to carry some sort of weight, but he wished it did not feel so much like that weight was _crushing_ him.

He heard Bilbo's footsteps on the stairs, turning as he gratefully acknowledged the fact the hobbit had deliberately made enough noise so he would not be startled by the Shireling's approach. Emerging onto the parapet, Bilbo's eyes went immediately to the fires visible in the clear night, then, turning to Kili, he did a sort of double take.

"Are you _absolutely_ sure about this?" he asked, sounding increasingly worried. "You're as pale as my sheets back in Bag End, I swear!"

"We already talked about this, Bilbo." His words would have been a great deal more convincing had his voice not shook at every syllable, but Kili refused to back down. His brother's actions when waking him for the watch had proven just how _wrong_ things were inside the mountain, and he did not want to see that wrongness spread further into the surrounding land than it already had, nor for it to cost him the lives of those he loved. "I _have_ to go."

"Alright then." Bilbo, thankfully, let it rest at that, removing a coil of rope from his shoulder as he moved over to the edge of the stone balcony. "Where's the best place to tie this, do you suppose?"

The long hour he had spent waiting for the hobbit had not been ill spent, and Kili had no trouble directing the hobbit as to the best location to fasten the line so that it would not come unfastened or fray on the sharp edges that protruded from the smooth stone. With the rope firmly tied and hidden from all but a discerning seeker, the two of them shimmied their way down the wall, Bilbo leading the way and Kili following with a great deal less grace. It was not until his feet hit the ground outside Erebor that doubt struck him anew, and he stood rigidly, clutching the rope so tightly it tore into his hands as he took quick, shallow breaths, forcefully reminding himself of all the reasons this was _necessary_.

"Kili?" Bilbo prompted at last, when just a little too much time had passed.

"I'm coming," he assured the hobbit, releasing the rope one finger at a time, and stepping with difficulty away from the stone wall. "We'll have to take the ledge around if we don't want to get wet, or we could swim downstream. Either way we're going to encounter sentries sooner or later, and they probably won't be kind."

"Are they ever?" Bilbo muttered, invoking the dark humour he had picked up from the dwarves during their journey. Kili offered him a weak grin in response, a gesture he was sure was all but lost in the darkness, before gesturing for the hobbit to lead the way.

Still a creature of comfort even after all the toil and hardships they had endured, Bilbo naturally chose the drier path, and they picked their way in silence around the edge of the pooled stream, wary of being spotted by either friend or foe. The night was eerily still all around them, and it held a deep sense of foreboding, as if waiting for the grand clamour that would shatter its tranquil silence. Refusing to look back, and concentrating simply on placing one foot in front of the other as he followed behind the burglar, Kili noticed the sentry a second later than he should have, and had to force his itching palms not to seize his weapons as the watchman was joined by three others, all four of them clad in an elven uniform too familiar to miss, with arrows already to the string.

"Well, well," said the first, viewing them with an unreadable expression. "And what do we have here? Spies? Or simple cowards fleeing the battle?"

"Neither," Kili replied steadily, his doubts and fears put aside for the moment as he stepped forward to stand level with Bilbo, staring the elves down with the contempt he believed they deserved. Fili may have been the one groomed to inherit the throne, but Kili had watched his brother closely over the years, as well as his uncle, and he had learned a great deal more than he let on to either. He was doing this deed as a representative of the House of Durin, and he was determined to conduct himself in a matter befitting of the same. "We are ambassadors from Erebor, and would have words with those who call themselves your leaders."

"Ambassadors who come armed," the elf-captain observed, jerking his bow slightly to point out Kili's own weapons. "Your request shall be honoured, but only after you have surrendered your arms."

Kili was of a mind to tell the elf to lay his own down first, but swallowed that impulse, aware the situation balanced on a knife's edge, and his kin's fate hung in the balance. The setting was dire enough as it was without aggravating things further. Moving his stiffly reluctant arms, he drew the strap that bore quiver, bow, and sword over his head, holding it out and letting it slip through his fingers as one of the elves took it from his hands. Bilbo, after a second's hesitation, also handed over Sting, staring after the small blade with a longing glance as if he never expected to see it again. Kili could well sympathize, having already seen his own beloved tools disappear into the elven ranks of Mirkwood once before, their replacements now following in their footsteps, but he did not let that sympathy show on his face, pulling on every remnant of the Durin blood that ran in his veins to stand tall and unflinching before the elves' scrutiny.

"Come," the elf-captain commanded as soon as they had been relieved of their weapons. "I will show you the way."

Nudging Bilbo to go first, Kili trailed along at both their heels, letting his eyes scan the encampment through which they now moved. The men of Laketown and their elven compatriots had not made their home within the ruins of Dale, choosing to be further north, nearer to the mountain, and perhaps fearful of what ghosts and dangers might still lurk in the fallen city. Their temporary home hung instead on the edge of small ravine through which the River Running had long carved its path, Dale's crumbled walls and the bridge that spanned the river a mere shadow behind the crowd of white tents.

The camp itself seemed even larger now that he stood inside it than it had from the mountain, and he felt his mouth run dry as he saw the various elves and men at work in makeshift smithies or laughing around roaring bonfires as they feasted and sang of riches and victory they had yet no claim to. He felt like he should be angered by their presumptions, and knew Thorin would have been, but instead he felt saddened, just as the looks of possession on his companions' faces saddened him. Turning away from the camps, he pinned his gaze to the elf-captain's head, and did not move it from the braided, blond locks until he and Bilbo were ushered into a large tent that stood out among those set around it.

Inside he found himself suddenly face to face with not only Bard of Esgaroth, but also King Thranduil of Mirkwood. Though he had suspected that the elvish king would be present, he felt himself freeze momentarily upon actually entering the presence of the being who had kept he and twelve others imprisoned for so long. Anger rushed through him, and he might have acted upon it, had Bard not spoken first.

"This is an odd envoy that Thorin Oakenshield sends forth in the dark watches of the night," the bowman commented, viewing them both with open curiosity, and not a little wariness. "Are such dealings customary among dwarves?"

"Well, we aren't what you would call an _official_ envoy, exactly," Bilbo piped up, filling the silence Kili was not yet in hand enough to repel. Wincing slightly at that admittance, he turned to glare at Bilbo, earning a helpless shrug from the Halfling.

"Indeed." Thranduil, intrigued, leant forward in his seat – a simple, wooden creation, without the glamor of the throne inside his own halls – elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped beneath his chin. "Then in what capacity do you now come before us?"

"As an heir of Durin," Kili spoke at last, finally finding his voice. "A Prince of Erebor, and kin to its King, Thorin Oakenshield."

"A King yet without a kingdom, Prince Kili," Bard replied, uttering the title without contempt, and reminding Kili they had met once before by speaking his name. "Erebor is not yet reclaimed."

"My uncle would beg to differ," Kili answered, finding his stride and keeping it. "You sit here with your army believing that he will break, but I know Thorin, and he would not bow to your wishes if you sat here a hundred years."

"That is as may be," Thranduil conceded with an odd tilt of his head. "But the fact remains that, should he pursue that path, he will soon find the riches of his mountain insubstantial in the face of greater needs."

"Actually," Bilbo, again, seemed to feel the need to interject. "I'm almost certain he would rather sit on his gold and starve to death than submit to your request."

"If he is set on this folly, we shall not dissuade him," Thranduil was undeterred. "There are debts to be paid, and until they are settled…"

"Debts?" Kili's eyes flashed as he stepped forward, his ire finally getting the better of him. "Who are _you_ to speak of debts, when you _abandoned _the people of Erebor to their fate when Smaug came? My uncle did not ask you to slay the beast, he asked you for _help_, and you could not even be bothered to offer so much as a loaf of bread to a people who had lost their very home! The only debt owed here is to the people of Esgaroth, who showed generosity when you did not, and who earned further reward by slaying Smaug. To you nothing is due, and were it you alone making demands at our door I would have joined my uncle in sending you on your way as swiftly as possible."

Bilbo made an odd choking noise at his side, and Thranduil's face contorted in rage, but Bard intervened before things could go further.

"There are old grievances here," he said smoothly. "And I do not think now is the time to either air them or set them to rest. We know now that Thorin Oakenshield would sooner die with his hoard than part from it, but I sense that is not all you came to tell."

"No." Reining his anger back in with an effort, Kili kept his focus on Bard, all but ignoring Thranduil, for fear of what he might do if he did not. "We bring warning that in two days or less you will be besieged by an army from the Iron Hills led by Dain Ironfoot. Thorin was able to send word to our kin in the east, and they have answered his summons."

"He means to make a war of it, then," Bard said darkly, leaning back in his chair as he folded his arms across his chest. "But, even with whatever reinforcements is sent, surely he must realize he is still outnumbered? The whole strength of Mirkwood's army lies here before him, and that is without taking into account the men from Esgaroth who bolster their ranks. Dain Ironfoot's army would have to be mighty indeed for them to hope for victory."

"I do not pretend to know my uncle's exact mind in this," Kili responded a great deal more calmly than he had spoken a few moments before. He did not know his uncle's mind at all anymore, or his brother's, a chasm so wide between them it made their separation on the stone giant's knees seem like naught. But he could not think of that void now, the place at his right hand that should have been filled by a dwarf not a hobbit, and instead focussed his thoughts on seeing this act of perfidy through to its completion. "Nor do I know what his intentions will be once Dain arrives. I know only that bloodshed lingers on the horizon, and I… I want no part in it."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Thranduil straighten, taking interest in the conversation again, and even Bard looked surprised.

"You wish leave to depart from the mountain?" the bowman asked, sounding disbelieving.

"No." Kili shook his head. "I hope to return there once my task here is done."

"And what is that task?" Bard probed.

"To deliver something," he replied curtly. "Something of value enough to give you leverage, and of a nature fit to touch Thorin's heart when no other plea will."

Kili swallowed, realizing yet again what a terrible deed he was now committing. He was glad it was Bilbo, and not he, carrying the Arkenstone. For, had it rested in his hands, he felt as though he would have fled already with it tightly grasped to his chest. Instead he turned to the hobbit, encouraging him to step forward and remove the wrapped bundle from his coat. The cloth he had bound it in fell away as he tugged loose the strappings, and suddenly the Heart of the Mountain shone forth once more.

Beholding it for the first time, Kili stared upon the sheer beauty of the precious stone in wonder, then quickly averted his gaze, a dogged fear nipping at his heels and reminding him he could as easily fall to the enthralment of Erebor as his companions were he not careful.

"This is…" Bard began, wonder in his tone.

"The Arkenstone," Bilbo supplied, for Kili's voice had abandoned him yet again, in awe or fear or crushing guilt he could not say. "The Heart of the Mountain, and the heart of Thorin Oakenshield. You do not know what he would give to have this in his possession."

"I think I am beginning to guess." Thranduil's gaze drifted away from the hobbit and his prize as he frowned at Kili. "Why are you surrendering this onto us? Is this stone not a great heirloom of your house?"

"It may yet be the only chance for peace we have," Kili murmured, transfixed by the light patterns glittering across the floor, and starting back to reality with a sharp jolt when Bilbo hastily rewrapped the Arkenstone's coverings. "As a representative of the House of Durin, I give it into your keeping, Bard of Esgaroth, under the understanding it will be returned to my family once this… disagreement has been settled."

He watched then, forcefully curbing the insatiable urge to stop it, as Bilbo handed the wrapped stone over to a still amazed Bard with a clumsy bow. The Halfling retreated quickly after, returning to his place at Kili's side, and the young dwarf absurdly took comfort at the hobbit's presence beside him. Bilbo was not his brother, and could never be, but he would have to do for now.

"It will be returned," Bard promised, resting the covered stone on his knees as he gazed at them both with amazement. "I give you my word, Prince Kili of Erebor, that it shall one day hang in the halls of your home once more." Kili nodded stiffly, and Bard frowned. "But what now?" he asked cautiously. "You spoke earlier of your intention to return to the mountain, but can you, really, having done this deed?"

"My place is there." Of that, there was no question. This may be the worst act of treason ever committed in dwarvish history, but Kili considered abandoning the Company a crime far worse. He could not walk away from his friends and family. He _would not_. "If Master Baggins desires, he can stay here, but I have no choice in the matter."

"You had a choice," Thranduil corrected softly, without the aggravation of before. "You made it, and made it well. Doubtlessly, if you take at all after your mother's kin, you will not care for the respect of an elf, but you have it, Kili, son of Dis, as do you, Master Baggins. This was no easy thing to do, I am sure."

"I doubt whether it's over yet, either," Bilbo murmured, sounding disquieted. "Things are never so easy."

"That is true." Turning, Bard set the stone safely down atop the pallet pressed into one corner of the tent, before rising and approaching both his guests. "What _will_ you do now, Bilbo Baggins? Remain here, or return with Prince Kili to Erebor?"

Bilbo hesitated, and Kili more than half expected him to choose the first, and far safer alternative. But Bilbo instead stole a glance at the young dwarf, before squaring his shoulders and meeting Bard's compassionate gaze with a steady one.

"I've been a part of the Company too long to walk out on them now," he declared solemnly. "I thank you for the offer, Master Bard, but I cannot stay here. I shall return with Kili."

"Bilbo," Kili protested, fearing what harm might come to his hobbit friend once Thorin discovered what they had done. Bilbo did not have the protection offered by the ties of blood that Kili had, and Kili was not even certain those ties would be enough when Thorin learned of their actions this night. He had seen the longing for the Arkenstone in his uncle's eyes, and knew Bilbo had spoke truth when he called the precious gemstone as much the heart of Thorin as it was of the mountain. "You do not have to…"

"And neither did you," Bilbo remarked pointedly, turning to him and quelling him with a look that would have made Thorin proud. "But you did, because it was the _right_ thing to do, and so is this. I may be a burglar now, but I won't skulk away like a thief in the night and leave my friends to assume the worst."

"They will likely do that anyway," Kili laughed, feeling oddly light and relieved, though he was certain the feeling would pass swiftly enough. It would be good to have _someone _at his side, at least, when the storm broke. "And I am not at all certain anymore that they are the ones leaving their senses behind them."

"We were all mad long before this quest started, I'm sure," Bilbo muttered, shaking his head, then turning back to the two bemused lords watching their exchange. "No, I'll be leaving, and I'll not be swayed."

"As stubborn as any dwarf, then," Thranduil observed with a slight shake of his head. "Very well, have your way, but go with the good wishes of my people. I pray that Thorin Oakenshield sees sense before he metes out the punishment that is sure to come." With a slight incline of his head, the elven lord thus excused himself, leaving the pair alone with Bard.

"If you will not stay, then you must at least allow me to escort you back to the gates of Erebor," the Esgarothian said with a slight sigh. "It is the very least I can do after the sacrifice you two just made."

Accepting the man's offer, Kili followed Bard back out of the tent, and very nearly collided with a grey clad arm, the hand belonging to which grasped his weapons, and held them now extended, ready for him to take. Uncertainly, he closed his hand around his armaments, before lifting his gaze to view the man returning them.

"Gandalf!" The name burst forth from his lips with joy and delight, his worries and fears momentarily brushed aside by his excitement at seeing the wizard.

"You're here?" Bilbo, who had almost crashed into his back when he stopped so suddenly, stepped around him to gape up at the smiling wizard. "But… How? When?"

"Those are questions that must wait for the time being, Master Baggins," Gandalf replied with the same mystique Thorin had accused him of always delighting in as he handed Sting back to its rightful owner. "And are of little import regardless. I am here now, and just in time, it seems." He pinned them both with a knowing look. "I am not sure whether you have both done something very brave or very foolish, and I'm inclined to think of it as both. It was well done, regardless."

"Are you coming back to the Mountain with us?" Bilbo asked eagerly, clearly hoping for some support in the inevitably approaching confrontation.

"Not just yet," Gandalf declined, and Kili felt his own heart sink again as he realized he, too, had been pinning his hopes on the wizard's presence. "But take heart, both of you. The tides are changing swiftly, and things unlooked for are about to occur. Things of darkness and shadow, that will clear minds of their gluttony and remind them who their true foe in this world is."

More unsettled than comforted, Kili slid the strap of his quiver over his head before turning back to the wizard. "What do you mean?"

"All in good time, _Prince_ Kili," Gandalf replied, a twinkle in his eye as he emphasized the title. "All in good time, and you are short of it. You had best hasten back now, before you are missed. I expect I shall see you both again on the morrow."

Kili was not so certain, but he accepted the wizard's congenial farewell nonetheless, then travelled in silence with Bilbo, Bard, and a small honour guard back to the pooled water outside the gates of Erebor. It was only there that they parted ways, after one last attempt on Bard's part to convince them to stay. Both Kili and Bilbo refused the kind offer, and turned with a sense of dreaded finality back towards the mountain that had become both home and prison for the time being. The deed was now done, and all that was left to do was await the consequences.


	3. Chapter 3

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 3**

Gandalf's words stayed with Kili for the rest of his sleepless night, and he lay on his back pondering them long after he had woken Bombur to follow him in the watch. What had the old wizard meant, he wondered, when he spoke of darkness and shadow soon to be upon them? Was it Dain he spoke of? Of the war brewing between dwarves and elves and men? That was a coming darkness, certainly, but he could not shake the feeling it was not what Gandalf had been referring to. He had said that the approaching shadow would turn minds away from the greed of gold, not start a war over it, and he tried to find meagre comfort in that thought.

The Company was up at the crack of dawn, Bombur humming tunelessly and without his accustomed mirth as he divvied up the rations for their breakfast. Kili found the very idea of food, let alone _cram_, as appealing as the idea of gnawing on the old bones that littered the dragon's bed of gold, and turned his own share down almost as soon as it was offered. He had forgotten that Bombur was the only one among the others who did not seem wholly enchanted by the treasure of Erebor, and thus was surprised when the large dwarf took him aside after he had served the others.

"Are you ill, Kili?" he asked anxiously, looking the youngest heir of Durin up and down as if expecting him to show some visible sign of less than pristine health. "Only, I could not help but notice your lack of appetite yesterday, and it has not improved this morning."

"No, no I'm not ill," he assured their kindly cook with a wavering smile. "I'm just not all that hungry."

"None of us are, not for _cram_," Bombur harrumphed his disgust at their only source of food. "But we're all eating. Come to think of it, you didn't look all that well last night, either. Are you _sure_ nothing is wrong?"

Kili inwardly cursed Bombur for choosing _now_, of all times, to actually be more observant of his companions than he was of his meals. Thought, perhaps with only _cram_ to take his fancy, Bombur was seeking a distraction from the hunger that was no doubt ten times worse for him than anyone else. Thankfully, or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view, he was saved from the need to make any response by the sound of clear trumpets ringing outside. Thorin was on his feet in a second, with Fili, Balin, and Dwalin following him up the stairs to stand above the gate. After a second's hesitation, Kili moved to trail all four, sharing a trepidatious smile with Bilbo as the hobbit joined him. By the time the pair of them made it to top steps words were already being exchanged between the envoys and Thorin, and Kili felt a wave of relief wash over him as he spotted Gandalf standing before and between Thranduil and Bard, concealed in a gray robe and hood, his pointed hat conspicuously absent.

"Is there nothing for which you would yield any of your gold?" Bard was saying, his voice carrying clearly on the early morning air.

Thorin snorted, giving a dismissive wave as he retorted, "Nothing you or your friends have to offer."

Bard hesitated a beat, and Kili saw the Esgarothian's gaze flicker briefly to him and Bilbo, before returning to Thorin. "What of the Arkenstone of Thror?" he asked boldly, and it was then that Gandalf raised his hands and removed the lid on the box Kili had failed to notice before. The Arkenstone shone forth with the same glorious beauty as had almost bewitched him the night before, and, stealing a glance at his uncle, Kili saw the same wonder and reverence on Thorin's face. Silence fell then, one of deep anticipation and confusion, and it was broken only when Thorin found his voice again.

"That stone was my grandfather's," he declared, rage in his voice and face, a deeper anger than any Kili had ever seen. Instinctively, he shrunk back against the stone barricade running along the balcony, and was dimly aware of Bilbo doing the same. "And I will not pay tribute for what is now rightfully mine! How came you to even possess this heirloom of my house, if it is even necessary to ask such a question of thieves?"

"We are not thieves," Bard answered calmly, directing Gandalf with a wave of his hand to cover the jewel once more. "The Arkenstone will be returned to you as soon as the debts owed to Esgaroth have been met."

But Thorin would not accept that evasion, and shouted in rage, "I will have an answer! How came you by it?"

"I gave it to them!" The voice came from beside him, and Kili turned in dread to Bilbo, hoping to silence the hobbit, but knowing it was too late, his uncle's wroth-filled gaze having already found its prey.

"_What_?"

The single word was toneless, and that, Kili knew, was a greater sign of Thorin's anger than any other. Bilbo was shaking now, his face gone utterly white, and his mouth opening and closing without sound. Thorin took a step forward, and Bilbo scurried back.

"Speak, burglar!" the leader of their Company demanded. "Speak again. Explain to me how the Arkenstone came to be in their hands. Explain to me what treachery you have wrought here this day, you miserable, _cursed_ creature!"

Thorin's hand was already on his sword, and Kili, unable to stand by, threw himself between the pair.

"Stop, Thorin! It wasn't his fault!" he cried, blocking Bilbo from the enraged King's sight. "It was _my_ idea!"

That was not entirely truthful, but nor was it wholly a lie, and Kili refused to let Bilbo come to harm, even if that meant enduring the look of enraged betrayal now darkening his kin's features.

"Do not lie on his behalf, Kili," Thorin's tone was a warning in and of itself, without the need for the words that bore it. "Do not stand in my way."

"I am not lying." Kili stood his ground, not daring to turn away from his uncle, because he could not bear to see the looks of betrayal he was sure he would find on the faces of his companions. "I went with Bilbo to the enemy camp last night during my watch to deliver the Arkenstone to Bard of Esgaroth. I knew what he was doing, I could have stopped him, but instead I aided him. If you wish to punish someone, then punish me."

The look on his uncle's face then was indescribable, and Kili stood uncertain, waiting for the hammer to fall, and not knowing which path its descent might follow. He had never had reason to fear Thorin before now, though he had held him above all others and lived in awe of the great dwarf he was, he had never feared that harm might come to him at his uncle's hands. He did not know now, however, if that still held true, and that uncertainty frightened him.

He saw the moment when Thorin made his choice as clear as daylight, the King under the Mountain's hand flying once more to his blade as he tore it free of its sheath and leap forward with a bellow of raw, animalistic rage. Kili staggered back, arms raised in a fruitless attempt to protect himself even as he braced for the inevitable, only to have the inevitable never come.

"Stay your hand, Thorin Oakenshield!" Gandalf's voice was a booming shout that carried effortlessly across the distance, and Thorin stilled as though struck by lightning, Kili stumbling back clear of the blade, still shocked at the very thought his uncle had ever raised it against him. He distantly felt Bilbo's hand land against his back in an offer of support, but could not grant the hobbit even the slightest reassurance in return. "Do not chastise your kin for taking action that should have been done by yourself! You have refused those you should have welcomed, and offered nothing to those who deserved your gratitude. If others saw fit to fill the void left by your inaction, you cannot blame them for staying true to ideals you yourself once upheld, though your love of gold has now blinded you to it."

"It seems there is treachery to find around every corner!" Thorin shouted back, venom in his words, though at least now it was directed at Gandalf, and not at them. Kili sensed another's gaze on him, and knew it to be his brother's, but didn't dare lift his own from the stone beneath his feet. "How many others in my party have you swayed, _wizard_? How many others loyal to me are bewitched by your words?"

"There is but one bewitchment here, Thorin, and it is not of my doing," the wizard replied calmly. "Now, allow Bilbo and young Kili to depart the Mountain in peace."

"Gladly," Thorin replied with false civility. "Traitors belong amongst their own, and _you_…" He turned to Kili, his gaze scathing, and Kili all but crumbled beneath his condemnation. "You are no heir of the House of Durin. You are hereby stripped of the right to utter any affiliation with that house, and from any claim to the rights and privileges the bloodline of that family carries."

His blood was rushing in his ears, and he dimly thought he heard Fili's voice, uttering Thorin's name in both plea and protest. If his brother had truly spoken on his behalf he did not know, and Thorin did not so much as pause in his tracks.

"You have disgraced these halls, and those of your ancestors who once walked them, and in retribution I name you cast out and exiled from this and all other sanctuaries that belong to our people. Now go, and go quickly, before my patience is done."

Kili might have stood there till the end of time, frozen in place by his uncle's denunciation, had Bilbo not administered a sharp tug to his sleeve, all but dragging him across the parapet to refasten the rope they had used the night before. The hobbit nudged and prodded at him until he went down first, not heeding the final exchange between the envoys and Thorin, nor even aware that Bilbo had led him to stand among them. He could think of nothing but Thorin's words, and the expression that had been on his kin's face as he spoke them. He had expected no thanks for his decision, and had known how dire a wrath his actions might awake, but the extent to which Thorin had gone… _That_ he had never expected, and he could scarcely function beneath the weight of its occurrence.

_Exiled. Cast out. Disgraced_.

The words spun in Kili's mind in an unceasing cycle, bounding from one side of his skull to the other and leaving a searing path in their wake. He felt both hot and cold, his stomach turned to knots, and his palms damp with sweat. What had he done? What had he _done_? _What had he done_? He knew what the Arkenstone meant to Thorin, and yet he had… Whatever had possessed him to…? Tears blurred his vision, and he stumbled as he trailed the ambassadorial party back towards the camp of elves and men, starting when he felt a firm grip close about the elbow.

"Do not doubt the deed done at the bidding of the heart," Gandalf counselled when Kili glanced up at him, not bothering to hide yet another mark of shame to his name. He was no longer of the House of Durin, what pride did he have left? "Often it knows things the mind does not. The Thorin Oakenshield who stood on that wall today is not the dwarf who led twelve others hence from Bag End, though he may yet be saved from this illness of the mind."

"I…" he stammered, fighting for words, knowing he had none. "I _betrayed_ him. You did not see his face… he… he…" His actions had forced his uncle to raise his blade against him. _What had he done_?

"Stop this, Kili, son of Dis!" Gandalf halted in his tracks, giving Kili a sharp shake to ensure he had the young dwarf's attention. Startled, Kili found himself staring up at the wizard in shock. "I told you it was well done and I meant it. Do not second guess yourself now." Kili swallowed sharply, wondering how Gandalf could expect him to do anything but that. The wizard's expression softened then, and he reached inside his robes, drawing forth the box containing the Arkenstone and pressing it into Kili's hands. "This is the birthright of your house," he stated gently. "It is yours to keep until its rightful owner is of a mind fit to possess it."

"It is not my house anymore, Gandalf," he answered softly, glancing down at the nondescript chest in his hands. "Did you not hear Thorin?"

"He will regret those words with time," Gandalf counselled calmly, placing a hand on Kili's shoulder and using it to steer him after the others. "If he is not already. Fili spoke for you, if you did not notice."

"I thought I heard his voice…" Kili murmured, still feeling hollow inside, but cheered, if only a little, by the thought his brother had come to his aid. Fili had been all but ignoring him over the past few days, taken by the gold enchantment to the point he seemed to have forgotten Kili existed. But he had remembered when it counted, even if that had been too late, and had not turned on Kili for his actions. He wished now that he had dared to look his brother in the face before their parting, especially seeing as there was chance he would never get such an opportunity again.

"So you see you have not lost everything," Gandalf told him firmly. "Not yet, and you are not alone either."

At that last statement Kili found himself looking up, both surprised and not to see Bilbo waiting for him on the fringes of the camp, a pinched look of concern on the burglar's face. Gandalf gave him a slight shove in Bilbo's direction, before hastening away on whatever business had brought him to the mountain's foot in the first place. Kili watched him go, then turned and closed the distance between himself and the hobbit.

"Did Gandalf give you that?" Bilbo asked curiously, nodding his head towards the box.

"Yes." He juggled its weight slightly, feeling the heaviness of the stone within, and yet without any desire to see it again. He had had enough of rich and beautiful things to last him a lifetime, it seemed. "For safekeeping, or so he said." Eyeing Bilbo, he extended both hands on impulse. "I can think of no safer place to leave it than with our burglar."

"Oh, I couldn't…!" Bilbo began to protest.

"Please, Bilbo," his quiet plea silenced the hobbit in an instant. "I would rather not keep the wretched thing. Give it to Bard, or even to Thranduil, if you wish, but at least take it off my hands."

Looking even more concerned than he had been before, Bilbo nonetheless took the proffered chest. "You don't mean that," he said. "Leastways, not that bit about Thranduil."

"Perhaps not," Kili agreed, rubbing a hand across his brow as he felt the consequences of too many sleepless nights and the stress of this very morning come crashing down upon him. Bilbo, still watching him like a hawk, reached out to grab his sleeve again.

"Come on," he said gently. "Bard has given us lodgings, such as they are. Not that I should complain, really. Warm food and a bedroll in a tent is as good as anywhere else I daresay, though…"

The rest of Bilbo's prattle Kili simply tuned out, letting his mind go blank as he blindly followed after the hobbit, and collapsing onto the first pallet he saw, not even bothering to remove his coat or boots. Sleep offered him an escape, from what he had done, what Thorin had done, and what was yet to _be_ done, and he did not hesitate to take it.


	4. Chapter 4

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 4**

"I gave it to them!"

When the Company's burglar spoke Fili turned with all others to stare at their hobbit in dismay, but his gaze never made it to the halfling's features, caught instead by the sight of his brother's face, pale and terrified, Kili's dark eyes darting frenetically from Bilbo to Thorin's enraged visage.

"_What_?"

There was a deep fury behind that one word, an anger Fili shared, for this act Bilbo claimed to have committed was one of the highest treachery, the deepest betrayal, and… and _why _was Kili looking like that?

Thorin strode a pace forward as Bilbo scuttled back, looking suddenly afraid, as he well should. Fili could see his uncle's hand hovering near his blade even as he raged at their thief.

"Speak, burglar!" he commanded, eyes alight with a fire that burned hotter than even dragon's flame. "Speak again. Explain to me how the Arkenstone came to be in their hands. Explain to me what treachery you have wrought here this day, you miserable, _cursed_ creature!"

There was the slightest grate of metal on metal as Thorin's sword began to slip free of its bindings, and something like unease crept up Fili's spine, his anger mingled with a sudden doubt, a far off bell ringing clearly through a cacophony of noise. And then Kili was there, arms outstretched as he stood between Bilbo and Thorin, his face colourless, but his stance determined.

"Stop, Thorin! It wasn't his fault!" Kili was fond of Bilbo, so of course he would defend him, Fili reasoned, though surely his brother could see that this was an unforgivable offense that… "It was _my_ idea."

His thoughts ground to a sudden halt, his world shifting and spinning on an axis in an effort to sit itself right again. Kili could not mean… His brother would not have…

"Do not lie on his behalf, Kili," Thorin warned, echoing Fili's own thoughts. For surely that was all this was. His brother was of Durin's Line, one of the Company, and he would not have betrayed them in such a way. Not Kili. "Do not stand in my way."

"I am not lying." Kili raised his chin slightly in defiance, meeting Thorin's glare without flinching, and Fili's heart began to race in his chest, because he _knew_ his sibling too well to doubt now what he saw in the archer's face. Kili was telling the truth. Each word his brother spoke now was a stabbing pain in his chest, for this was _real_. It had happened. Kili had _betrayed _them.

"I went with Bilbo to the enemy camp last night during my watch to deliver the Arkenstone to Bard of Esgaroth."

_No, Kili. Do not say that. You cannot have done it, brother…_

"I knew what he was doing. I could have stopped him, but instead I aided him."

Thorin's expression was darkening by the second, and Fili was suddenly afraid for his sibling.

_Stop talking, Ki, just stop. _

But Kili was not done, and sealed what had already been spoken with his final verbal sally. "If you wish to punish someone, punish me."

And Thorin would. Fili could see it in every line of his uncle's body, in the way rage made his hands tremble, his knuckles white against his sword's hilt. Frantic, he made to step forward, but the words he summoned to his lips were drowned out by the cry of outrage that left Thorin's own as the King Under the Mountain leapt forward, his blade swinging free of its sheath in an arc meant to end in Kili's flesh. Kili's eyes were wide and petrified as he staggered backwards in an effort to evade harm, and then Gandalf's voice was booming all around them with the same commanding presence it had held in Bag End.

"Stay your hand, Thorin Oakenshield!" the wizard roared, and wonder of wonders Thorin did just that. Pausing mid-strike as he whirled to gaze down at their once-guide. Fili had eyes only for Kili, however, and his brother's ashen face, only the hobbit's bracing hand on his back keeping the young dwarf upright. "Do not chastise your kin for taking action that should have been done by yourself! You have refused those you should have welcomed, and offered nothing to those who deserved your gratitude. If others saw fit to fill the void left by your inaction, you cannot blame them for staying true to ideals you yourself once upheld, though your love for gold has now blinded you to it."

"It seems there is treachery to find around every corner!" Thorin shouted back as Fili tried to catch his brother's gaze, but Kili's eyes were downcast, his head bowed in defeat, and if he sensed Fili's eyes on him he did not return the glance. "How many others in my party have you swayed, _wizard_? How many others loyal to me are bewitched by your words?"

"There is but one bewitchment here, Thorin, and it is not of my doing." Gandalf's answer came, steady and sincere. "Now, allow Bilbo and young Kili to depart the Mountain in peace."

"Gladly." Thorin's agreement had come too swiftly. Fili stepped forward, though he knew he could not bodily halt words. "Traitors belong amongst their own kind. And _you_…" He turned then, his piercing gaze finding his youngest nephew, and Fili almost fell back under shock himself at the words that followed. "You are no heir of the House of Durin. You are hereby stripped of the right to utter any affiliation with that house, and from any claim to the rights and privileges the bloodline of that family carries."

"Thorin…" He took another step forward, desperate to intervene, but Thorin did not even so much as glance his way. "Thorin, stop, _please_."

"You have disgraced these halls." His eyes darted to his brother, though he almost wished they had not, for he could see Kili crumbling beneath every word. "And those of your ancestors who once walked them, and in retribution I name you cast out and exiled from this and all other sanctuaries belonging to our people. Now go, and go quickly, before my patience is done."

But Kili didn't move, his eyes fixed on Thorin as though his uncle had just ripped his heart from his chest with his bare hands. And Thorin had, Fili thought, grief and fury and confusion stilling his tongue when he knew he should have been saying something, _anything _that might spare Kili the utter agony this had to be. Bilbo moved faster than he, however, and the hobbit had led his brother away before he could do more than raise a hand in a gesture of pleading even he did not fully understand. The wrongness of this was overwhelming, and Gandalf's words echoed in his ears.

_Bewitchment_, the wizard's voice sounded again and again. _Bewitchment._

"I am betrayed," Thorin was speaking again, angry still, though it was a more controlled rage now. Fili did not understand how it could be so, for his own emotions were in turmoil, his head filled with questions and doubts and screaming denials, and he had half a mind to fling himself off the wall in Kili's wake. That was his brother, his baby brother, and Thorin had just… "It was rightly guessed that I could not forbear to redeem the Arkenstone, the greatest treasure of my house. For it I will give one-fourteenth share of Erebor's wealth, but that shall be accounted the promised share of these _traitors_, and with that reward they shall depart, and you may divide it as you will. They will have little enough, I do not doubt."

"Until it is delivered, we keep the stone," Bard replied, unmoving, and Gandalf added his own words of wisdom.

"You are not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain," the wizard stated flatly. "But things may change yet."

"They may indeed," was Thorin's answer, and Fili's eyes snapped to his uncle in sudden suspicion, wary of the tone in which those words were uttered. Surely Thorin did not meant to…

"We will give you until tomorrow," Bard addressed Thorin again. "At noon we will return and see if you have brought forth from the hoard the portion that is to be set against the stone. If that is done without deceit then the siege shall be lifted, and we will depart from the Mountain."

With those final words the leader of men turned his back on the gates of Erebor, all others following in his footsteps, and Fili watched in dismay as his brother vanished from his sight. His heart spoke out against all that had happened, and he demanded answers of himself in anger. Why had he not intervened sooner? Why had he stood by and let Thorin threaten first Bilbo and then Kili, his own brother? Furious, he turned away from the wall even as he heard Thorin call for Roac, storming down the stairs to the hallways below. He paced there, back and forth, as he waited for the others to descend as well. Thorin was a long time following, and did not even bother speaking to his nephew as he strode across to the smouldering remains of the night's fire and calmly took his seat there.

It was that indifference that did Fili in, the blond dwarf crossing the space between he and his uncle in a few long strides and ripping his gifted sword free of its trappings to hurl it to the floor. The bejewelled blade clattered on the stone with a resounding boom that drew the attention of the whole Company, and not just the dwarf at whom's feet it had been so violently cast. Thorin was the last to raise his head at the noise, taking a moment to briefly study the fine weapon Fili had so loved when it was first given to him, and now loathed with all his being, before turning his gaze up to his enraged nephew.

"What," Fili began, verging on an icy fury such as he had never felt before, his hands clenched at his sides and his teeth grinding together as he spoke. "Was _that_?"

Around them, the entire Company seemed to close ranks, either to retreat or to intervene Fili neither knew nor cared. All he could think of was the way his uncle had come so perilously close to bringing the blade now resting at his side down upon his brother, and the way Kili had simply shattered as Thorin made every perceived rejection of the past pale in comparison to that which now hung over the present. Fili did not understand why Kili had given the Arkenstone to Bard and the elves. His brother was impulsive at the best of times, and never one to think things through thoroughly, but he knew Kili would never deliberately betray them. Whatever thoughts had been in his younger sibling's mind when he handed the beloved jewel over, they had not been of treachery, of that Fili was certain, and he had not deserved the punishment Thorin had been all too ready to mete out.

"Justice," Thorin answered him tersely, his eyes narrowed in warning. "Or do you condone what he did?"

_He_. Not Kili. Not 'your brother'. Simply _he_, because Thorin had taken everything else.

"You call _that_ justice?" he demanded fiercely. "You were going to execute him!"

"That is the penalty for treachery!"

Surging to his feet, Thorin pulled on his advantage in height to tower over his nephew, but Fili would not be swayed. His mind was clearer now than it had been in days, and he knew, realized for the first time, that it had _not_ been clear before. He did not know when the lure of the treasure had breached his defences and taken his mind, but he knew now that it had happened, and that it was _still_ happening to all those around him. Because Fili _knew_ his uncle loved both he and his brother as a father would his sons, and, were Thorin in his right mind, he would not have raised a hand, let alone a blade, against either one of them.

"Kili did _not_ betray you!" he shouted back, refusing to be cowed, and wishing he had his younger brother's height to combat Thorin's. "He was trying to _help_!"

"By selling our greatest treasure to the enemy?" Thorin's voice was thick with anger, disappointment, and incredulous disbelief. "That is what you would call aid?"

Why _had_ Kili bartered the Arkenstone? Why had he risked going against not just their uncle, but also every dwarf in the Company, to hand such a prize to those who besieged them in their own home? Fili paused a moment, seeking an adequate response, and knowing if he simply thought for long enough he would find his brother's reasons. He knew Kili too well to _not_ be able to figure out the path his thoughts must have taken. His brother had been alone, surrounded by kin who had eyes for nothing but the bewitching treasure thick with a dragon's curse, and he had chosen to take the greatest treasure of all and give it to the enemy. Was he hoping to avert further enchantment? No, the entire Company had already been obsessed with the gold, so that could not be the reason.

And then he remembered Dain, and the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

"He was _trying_ to stop a _war_!" he roared, not realizing he had done so until the echoes came bounding back again. He heard one of the others – Ori, most likely – let out a startled gasp at the mention of 'war', and latched onto that as his answer. "Because that is what it is going to come to, isn't it?" he demanded sharply. "You told them you would pay Bilbo's share of the treasure in return for the Arkenstone, but you don't mean to, do you? You're going to wait for Dain, and you're going to try and _fight_ rather than give the men of Esgaroth a single coin! For Durin's sake, Uncle, they _slew_ the dragon, do they not deserve _something_?"

"_They_ chose to align themselves with the elves," Thorin answered him, steel in his voice. "That was their choice, and they were warned of the consequences of making it!"

"Because the elves brought them food and shelter!" It felt strange, justifying the actions of an enemy he had been just as determined to thwart as Thorin but a few hours ago, but the memory of the look on Kili's face, the utter devastation that had splashed itself across his young visage, was now irremovably imprinted in Fili's mind, and it easily eclipsed whatever hold the gold had possessed over him. "Were they supposed to turn away an offer for aid?"

"They brought an army to our doorstep!"

That was true, a point Fili had to concede, but… "They did not know we were here."

"And that excuses their actions?" Thorin demanded incredulously. "Had we not been here they would have marched freely into Erebor and claimed all its treasures for themselves, never once sparing a thought for those of our kin who have as much right to claim it as any elf or man. Had we not been here, the legacy of our people would have been split among them like the spoil of thieves, for that is surely what they are. If they came seeking payment for the aid they offered, why did they bring armed forces? Why now do they besiege us in _our_ home, when they could have come before the gates of Erebor as friends?"

"Maybe because they are as bewitched with its treasures as we are," he answered, quietly, but with brutal honesty. "And it has driven them to equal lengths of madness."

His words fell like as many stones into a tranquil pool of water, sending distorting ripples out through the gathered Company, and bringing Thorin, who had been pacing back and forth in his ire, to a standstill. Fili knew full well how touchy a subject he had chosen to raise, but knew also that the trial of having to tend Thror during his descent into insanity was perhaps the only thing that would allow him to reach his uncle now. The sway of the dragon's curse had only strengthened the lure of Erebor's riches, and Fili knew for a fact how difficult it was to escape the thrall of the treasure. Thorin was staring at him now, however, an unreadable look on his face, and Fili did not know whether to flee, stand, or speak.

"You would _dare_ make such an accusation?" Thorin said at last, his voice pitched low and full of menace. "Against your King?"

"No, not against my King," Fili corrected calmly, showing none of the fear that had formed inside him. "Against my _uncle_. You _threatened_ Kili, Thorin. You drew your sword on him and could easily have brought him to harm had it not been for Gandalf."

"Gandalf?" Thorin snarled the wizard's name. "Do not speak to me of Gandalf. His burglar was nothing but a spy amongst us, intended to tear us apart from the inside as soon as the treasure was within their reach. Gandalf never meant to help us, he sought only to profit from our quest."

It was not working, Fili realized with a sinking heart. He could not break the hold Erebor's treasure had on Thorin as Kili had broken the spell it had cast over him. He had failed, and he now stood before a king he no longer knew, in the company of friends he was no longer sure he could trust. None had spoken forth against Thorin, either on the wall above or here below, but it may have been respect that stayed their tongues, and the privilege their lesser relations to their leader denied them.

"You will not reconsider, then?" he asked softly, already knowing the answer.

Thorin sighed, and for a moment, just a brief moment, Fili saw the uncle he knew and loved in the proud dwarf's face, but that person was gone a moment later, swallowed by the new King under the Mountain.

"Kili made his choice," he stated firmly. "As I made mine. Nevertheless, he was your brother, and I do not begrudge you the desire to speak on his behalf."

Fili felt his mouth run dry at the inclusion of the word '_was_', and could find no words to respond. Thorin, apparently deciding the matter was done, his forgiveness having closed the subject, motioned for Balin and Dwalin to join him before heading back out onto the wall, no doubt to survey the enemy camp for the umpteenth time, or consult with Roac. Fili watched him go, feeling as though he should have fought harder, said _more_, but unable to summon the courage to try. He had done his best, and his best had not been enough.

"Fili?" The soft voice at his elbow made him jump, and he turned to Ori, not able to summon even the smallest of smiles for the quiet natured scribe. "War?"

"I'm afraid so," he uttered in hushed tones, shaking his head at Ori's near frantic expression. "There is no other way." Which meant Kili's sacrifice had also been for nothing. Not a particularly cheering thought.

Disquieted, Ori moved away again at a curt summons from one of his older brothers, and, left to himself, feeling keenly the absence of a presence that had stood at his side almost constantly for the past seven decades, Fili turned to return to the still burning embers of the last night's fire, only to freeze when he caught sight of the small bundle set to one side that was his brother's belongings. Kili had taken nothing with him but the clothes on his back, leaving the bow and sword he had been furnished with in Esgaroth, a copy formed of lesser materials of those he had carried forth from Erud Luin. Walking across, Fili dropped down beside the weapons, letting his fingers close about the smooth wood of the bow, and trying to draw some comfort from the object he so readily associated with Kili.

But there was no comfort to be found in the darkness beneath the mountain.

Not anymore.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Fili's words had had a greater impact on Thorin Oakenshield than the uncrowned King dared show, and, whilst Fili no doubt believed the act of throwing himself into his duties was a dismissal of his nephew's concerns, it was, in fact, an effort to remove their burning content from his mind.

Fili was not often one for confrontations. His eldest nephew was of a far milder disposition than many of his line, and preferred an argument of quiet words to the shouted conflict that had just occurred, but if there was one thing he would fight for with more ferocity than anything else in the world it was his brother. No matter that Kili had just taken the most precious relic in all of Erebor and handed it over to men and _elves_, Fili would stand by him regardless, and argue his case even if he did not understand his brother's reasoning. Except, that was not entirely true, was it? Because Fili _had_ understood. Had given a cause and effect, and thrust an accusation in Thorin's face that now curled like a venomous snake at the back of his mind, its poison already sunk deep.

Madness, Fili had said. Equal lengths of _madness_. Could it be true? Had he truly allowed the gold sickness to seize him as it had his grandfather? Allowed the same burden as had once rested on his shoulders to fall on those of his nephews? He had sworn that it was a fate that he would never succumb to, but could one really hope to prevent such a thing? Thror had not seen the sickness coming, was it possible he, too, had missed it? He refused to believe as much, but, then, how was he to explain what Kili had done? Kili, who, of all his Company, was the one least likely to deliberately go against his will, and certainly not in a manner so drastic. Kili, who always tried so hard to please, to the point of getting himself into trouble through his efforts.

In all honesty, Thorin would have felt less shocked – less _betrayed _– had Fili been the one to take the Arkenstone.

Fili had always respected him. He was loyal, obedient to a fault, and took his duties as an heir quite seriously despite the fact the kingdom had only just been reclaimed, but he was not like Kili. Where Fili respected, Kili idolized, holding his uncle well above where even Thorin knew he had a right to be. Why his younger nephew saw him in such a light was a mystery, though Thorin felt it could be partially attributed to the earliest years of his childhood. Whilst Fili had known a loving mother and father for five years, Kili had been robbed of the latter before he even truly knew the dwarf who had fathered him, and so had substituted his uncle and King in his father's place. At first Thorin had thought – _hoped_ – Kili's reverence would pass with familiarity, but, though he ceased traveling as often as he once had in the early years following his younger nephew's birth, the novelty of his constant presence had not worn off with time. Kili's admiration had remained steady and constant as he aged, but, to Thorin's dismay, his awe had not come with the same loyal obedience as Fili possessed.

Kili, it seemed, had been set to embody every negative trait for which the line of Durin was known. He was stubborn, reckless, impulsive, and challenged rules at every turn. He sought to impress, Thorin knew, and did not disobey deliberately, but he did have a terrible knack for getting himself into trouble, and thus finding himself on the receiving end of his uncle's temper a great deal more often than his brother was in the same position.

For all that he had idolized Thorin, however, Kili had still been fiercely independent. When the time came for Fili to learn how to handle arms his eldest nephew had been the ever-dutiful heir, learning sword, shield, axe, and hammer, whereas Kili had skipped right past the primary weapons of his people in favor of one rarely wielded. His choice of arms had been decidedly his own, and none of his uncle's attempts had been able to sway him from his choice. That he had proven remarkably adept with a bow was of little surprise given the dogged determination with which he pursued the art, and Thorin had been forced to concede that, if nothing else, the exercise had at least shown Kili to be capable of committing to a cause.

Because, if he walked as a pure example of all that was to be disliked about Durin's line, Kili also showed a great many of the good aspects. He _was_ committed, loyal, brave, compassionate – sometimes overly so –, determined, bold, and fiercely protective of his own. There was brashness there also, and an excess of youthful courage not yet trimmed by age, but there had been no part of his nephew, _either _of them, that Thorin had found wanting. And yet he had not seen the betrayal coming. He had not seen the treachery until it was upon him, and he could not help but wonder what else he had been blind to.

Kili might often act in haste, and without the goodly amount of thought Thorin would prefer he indulge in first, but for a deed so momentous as this he must surely have paused a moment. How had he missed the brooding hours that had most certainly been spent deciding on such a course of action? How had he not noticed his youngest nephew pulling away, drawing into himself and away from those who might seek to know his mind? How had he _missed_ this?

_Madness_, whispered Fili's voice in the back of his mind, and a fear he had not known since a youth spent watching his grandfather's mind waste away sparked to life once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N. A huge thank you to all those who have read, faved, and followed, especially to those who also chose to review. Every reviewer will get a personal response eventually, but for now just enjoy the heartbreak.**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 5**

It was dark when Kili awoke, a predawn greyness seeping through the bare slit at the tent's entrance, and spilling across the sparsely grassed floor in a straight beam. Bilbo, if he had even slept, was long gone, and the interior of the makeshift shelter was deathly still. Grimacing slightly as he pushed himself upright, regretting the fact he had not taken the time to find a more comfortable sleeping position, he moved his hands to push his tangled hair out of his face, freezing when his fingers brushed along the cold metal of the silver clasp he had miraculously managed to hold onto despite all the trials and tribulations that had stalked their Company since their departure from the Shire.

It was a symbol, that one piece of finery, and it bore the mark of his house, or, of what had _been_ his house. Blindly fumbling, he tore it free of the dark locks that had looped around it, letting it rest in his palm as he stared at the crest he no longer had any right to bear. The clasp itself was one of a set of three, and by rights it should have been returned to Thorin the moment his ties to the line of Durin were severed, ready to be passed on to the next heir of that family. Kili had not been thinking of such small, minute details at the time, and apparently neither had Thorin, leaving him with the heartbreaking decision of what to do with the bauble.

He could not throw it away, not only because it was not his to part with, but also because it held too much sentimentality in his mind for him to so readily cast it aside. It had once, or so he had been told, hung in the hair of his mother, just as Fili's had resided in the dark locks of the younger uncle neither of them had ever had the chance to meet. It was more than a mark of his lineage, it was a memoir of his mother, and with that in mind he tidied up his hair as best he could, before replacing the clasp in its rightful position. Let Thorin cry in outrage if he must, Kili no longer had the strength to care.

Hauling himself to his feet, he made his way across the tent to push the covering aside and stare out into the early morning twilight. The camps of both men and elves were quiet at this early hour, aside from the near silent shuffle of nighttime sentries and the odd clank of metal or creak of leather as some soldier or another attended to his gear. Kili could see no sign of Bilbo, or even begin to guess where the hobbit had disappeared to in the many hours during which his body had finally succumbed to exhaustion, and decided it best to simply let the matter lie for now. No doubt Bilbo would pop up when least expected, and Kili wasn't in much of a mood for company at present regardless.

Relying on his memory of their travel through the camp on the previous two occasions, he picked his way through the various tents until he found that which served as the armoury. The men of Esgaroth had brought an amazing number of arms with them from their burning city, likely the only thing they had thought to grab with a dragon bearing down upon their heads, and their supply of weaponry had been bolstered by what Thranduil's own forces carried with them on their swift march from Mirkwood. Whether they had been expecting dwarves or not, the elves had clearly been expecting a fight of some sort, and they had come prepared.

He bypassed the swords and shields hanging on their racks on either side of the enclosed space, stepping carefully around a loose pile of rough armour that still bore the smell of dragon's flame to view the small collection of bows and arrows that had been given their own space in a corner against the back wall. Most of the weapons were of elven make, and even those that were not were too large to ever properly act as a substitute for his own bow or that he had had made in Lake Town during their stopover there, but Kili had fired such weapons before, and if they were unwieldy they were still manageable.

Choosing one of the smaller, and decidedly _unelven_ bows along with a quiver full of arrows to match he turned and made his way back out of the tent, ignoring the pairs of eyes he felt marking his progress back across the camp towards the clear piece of land he had noted on his way there. The small field was bare save for a few sad and lonely trees that had suffered as dearly as the rest of Erebor's surrounds when the dragon came, but, dead or not, they provided as good a target as any, and Kili was in sore need of something to shoot.

Archery had always been a cathartic exercise for the young dwarf, a means of drilling away frustrations that would otherwise drive him mad in the meanwhile. He was not like Fili, and he could not sit still and logically walk himself through a problem. He needed movement, action, exertion, and when he had worked his muscles for long enough his mind would settle, his agitation would abate, and he would be in a fit state to confront whatever had bothered him in the first place and deal with it. No amount of shooting would offer him the answers he needed to fix the current situation, but it would at least allow him to pass the time in some manner other than chasing his thoughts in pointless and agonizing circles.

He managed to empty the quiver a great many times into the same unfortunate tree before both he and his arrows began to feel the effects of his exertions. He had done the same routine at home many times more, but using a strange weapon had required an adjustment of his stance and method, and he sympathized with his slowly blunting arrows as their performance began to fail. Choosing those among them that were still sharp enough to pierce the gnarly bark of the unfortunate conifer, he took his stance for the umpteenth time, only to nearly drop the arrow when a voice addressed him suddenly from behind.

"Yours is an odd choice of weapon for a dwarf," the elf observed, for it could only be an elf, with step so light and voice so tellingly fair.

Ignoring the statement for the time being, Kili planted his hand near his mouth, lining up his next shot and letting the arrow sail before making his response without turning to address the speaker. "We hunt too."

"Of course." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elf take a seat on one of water barrels lined up along the side of the tent, setting a wrapped bundle down at his side "But it is not often you see a bow wielded in battle, _true_ battle, by one of your kind."

"So I am an oddity then," he replied, and not without bitterness. "Have you come to stare? Or did Thranduil send you to make sure I was not sabotaging his ally's camp from the inside?"

"Your anger, though justified, is misplaced," the elf answered, still refusing to take offense. "My father did not send me, only my own curiosity."

"Your father?" Kili hesitated in the midst of drawing another arrow, finally turning to meet the speaker's blue stare. "King Thranduil?"

"Aye," the newly unveiled prince inclined his head lightly. "I am Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of the Realm of Greenwood."

The arrow was on the string again in a moment, and he barely took the time to aim before letting it fly, a satisfying 'thud' signalling it had found its mark. It was the last of any real use in his quiver, and a good thing too, for he feared he may have found his aim straying to less harmless places had he been given the opportunity. The temper for which his line was renown had not vanished with the titles and connections Thorin had so easily severed, and it boiled now in his blood.

"Has a prince nothing better to amuse himself with?" he spat as he turned back to the Silvan elf

"I did not come here seeking amusement," Legolas answered passively. "But rather an answer."

"To what?" Kili saw no reason to be polite. He knew full well what grievances lay between his fam… the Line of Durin and the woodland elves, and his own imprisonment in Thranduil's hall had not caused him to look upon the King Thorin so hated with any more favour. He may have been cast out and shamed by his family, but that did not mean he would happily acquiesce to becoming some elven prince's source of diversion.

"Your actions," Legolas said smoothly, and there was something like a pensive frown on his face when Kili turned to look at him directly again. "The deliverance of the Arkenstone to Bard of Esgaroth."

"Master Bard slew the dragon," Kili answered stiffly, not in any particular mood to defend the self-same actions that had caused the complete severance of his ties to his kin. "The destruction of Esgaroth deserved some form of recompense."

"Even at the risk of defying your lord and king?"

Legolas was studying him now as if he were a complex puzzle in need of solving, and Kili turned away in mingled shame and annoyance, stalking across the field to retrieve his arrows. Legolas was still seated, waiting, when he returned, and Kili found it doubtful he would leave without an answer.

"What does it matter why I did it?" he said agitatedly. "It is done."

"It clearly mattered to my father," Legolas answered smoothly. "He bade me give you this."

Confused, Kili accepted the bundle the elf handed to him, feeling the distinctly familiar bulk that lay beneath the fabric. Not quite daring to believe it, he drew back the coverings, and stared in disbelief as his beloved bow, sword, dagger, and quiver all revealed themselves in the light of the coming dawn. They were things he had never thought to see again, and he struggled to comprehend the fact he was holding them in his hands once more. It seemed such a small thing, to have them returned to him, but in the light of all that had happened of late it meant far more than it possibly could have under other circumstances.

"We brought all the weapons taken from you and your comrades hither, at the request of Mithrandir," Legolas told him, jerking him from his trance. "Apparently, he knew what he was about."

Kili nodded, not bothering to try and discern _how_ Gandalf could have known such was necessary. Instead he answered the elf with dry sarcasm that he figured was mildly more polite than his earlier anger. "I would thank you, Prince Legolas," he told the Silvan elf. "Except for the fact these were mine to begin with."

"Indeed."

Something like a smirk danced briefly across the elven prince's fair features, but if more had been meant to be uttered Kili would not know, because it was at that hour that the trumpets of Dain Ironfoot's company sounded across the valley, and all other matters were at once forgotten.

**/_NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES_\\**

Fili darted down the steps of the treasure room, uncaring that he set coins and gemstones scattering in his wake, or that the eyes of all the Company still below ground were suddenly upon him. He had eyes only for Thorin, the dwarf to whom his news must be imparted.

"Uncle…"

"Dain is here?" Thorin guessed, already straightening, an unfamiliar and unwelcome light in his eyes.

"Yes." Fili nodded, then just as swiftly shook his head. "But that is not all. Something is wrong, Thorin. Roac says there is another force from the north gathering near the southern spur. An army of goblins, orcs, and wargs."

"What in Durin's name are they doing here?" Gloin demanded, joining the rest of the Company in exchanging alarmed glances.

"What else?" Thorin swung about to face them all. "Gandalf slew the Goblin King, and we ourselves claimed the lives of many of their foul kind. All Azog would have to do is mention our names and he would have an army ready and waiting for him."

"But they're _goblins_," Ori protested. "They can't move in daylight."

"That is what you must see," Fili pressed, desperate to get them out of the treasure room, away from the gold, where they might actually be able to _think_. "Thorin…"

His uncle was already moving at a pace just short of a run, and Fili hastened to catch up, flanking the uncrowned King Under the Mountain as Thorin bounded up the stairs to the wall above, where Dwalin waited, leaning on his ax and staring with a grim face at the advancing bank of storm-clouds swallowing the horizon from the north.

"Winter is making itself known," the warmaster observed, but Thorin shook his head as he moved to stand beside the bald warrior.

"That is no mere storm, Dwalin," he said, voice grave. "Can you not feel it?"

Dwalin didn't answer, and Fili shuddered slightly, for he knew the reason for the warrior's silence. It would have been impossible not to feel the oppressive sense of evil radiating off the advancing storm, so that even the lightning that flashed amongst the black clouds seemed an unwholesome thing.

"Hail, Thorin," Roac's croaking voice split the silence that had fallen, and Thorin turned to face the aging raven. "My tidings grow worse with each visit, it would seem."

"One can not blame the messenger if all the news is ill," Thorin replied. "What is happening out there?"

"Lord Dain and the neighbours on your doorstep nearly came to blows," Roac answered. "But the wizard stopped them, and just as well too, for you have bigger things to contend with now than a simple hoard of wealth under threat. The force that moves beneath the black cloud is mighty indeed, over thrice what is gathered here already, and they come armed and ready for blood."

"Let them," Thorin retorted boldly. "Let them break themselves upon our walls. They will no sooner have Erebor than any other."

"What of Dain?" Balin interjected, and Fili blessed the old dwarf for sounding concerned about something other than gold. "Thorin, he came to your aid, and now he is trapped here along with all the others."

"Erebor is worth more," was Thorin's flat reply.

Balin's face did that funny little twist it always did when he disapproved and was trying to find a tactful way to phrase his disapprobation, but Fili did not wait for the diplomat to gather himself, hoping that this time, with an apparent ally, he might be able to reach his uncle.

"Than the lives of our kin, Thorin?" he questioned. "Did Thror not say the same of Moria?"

"This is _not_ the same!" There was something almost wild about the way Thorin whirled on him, and for a moment, just a brief moment, Fili thought he saw fear in the other dwarf's eyes. It startled him, so that he did not speak to interrupt as Thorin continued, "Erebor is ours again, as Moria never could have been, and I will not allow those foul creatures to take what we have just reclaimed!"

"So you would sacrifice Dain and all his followers for the sake of preserving a home that may well stand empty when all is said and done and our kinsmen lie in piles of dead again?" Balin's words were dark, his expression no less so. "We do not need another Azanulbizar, lad, truly we do not."

"I am not my grandfather," Thorin insisted, voice low and emphatic. "I will not make Thror's mistakes my own."

"You already have," Fili uttered softly, almost too softly to be heard, so that he wasn't certain whether Thorin truly did send him a brief, searing glance or whether the gesture was simply his imagination. If Thorin had heard his words he did not answer them, turning back to Roac with another request for the old raven.

"What is Dain doing now?" he asked. "Can he reach the mountain?"

"Perhaps." Roac tilted his head to the side in a gesture of consideration. "But I do not think he means to try. He is meeting now with the representatives of men and elves. I believe he intends to fight."

"_Fool_," Thorin muttered. "He will be crushed."

"And what good would hiding in the mountain do, in the end?" Balin turned on their uncrowned King. "Dain may have brought food and provisions, but we would only be trading one siege for another. We cannot simply hide behind our walls and let others fight this battle, Thorin. There is nothing inside Erebor worth abandoning all honour."

His words summoned a murmur of agreement from the rest of the Company, and Fili watched his uncle's eyes dart from one dwarf to another, something furtive in his gaze, before at last his stare met Fili's own. The King's heir had his own argument to make, one Thorin may very well discard entirely, for he had already undermined its worth with his previous actions, but Fili chose to make it nonetheless.

"Kili is out there, uncle," he said, not flinching in the face of possible wrath. "And I will not leave him to fight alone."

**/_NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES_\\**

Kili had never been more terrified than when Dain's men had been about to set upon the combined forces of Bard and Thranduil. It had been a terrible moment, watching the end he had sacrificed practically everything to stop come about despite his efforts, and his heart had not steadied to a regular rhythm until long after the calamity had passed. Or perhaps he should say _a_ calamity, for, no sooner had one been averted, with many thanks to Gandalf, then another rose in its place.

He was now seated, along with a number of Thranduil's sharpest eyes, on the lower slopes of the mountain's southern spur, just below the old dwarvish watchpost of Ravenhill, with his bow resting across his knees as he watched their enemy's numbers grow and grow. Goblins, orcs, and wargs, gathering in readiness for an assault on the mountain with Azog at their head, intent on having their revenge. For Azog's arm. For the Great Goblin. For the riches of Erebor the orcs had no use for, but would gladly liberate from the hands of others. Kili had never seen a force of such size, and seeing it now, amassing on the horizon in readiness to attack, he could not help but recall Thorin's stories of Moria, the outnumbered dwarves, and the many deaths that had darkened that victory beyond redemption.

Even as he sat there Thranduil, Bard, and Dain were taking council, their hostility of less than an hour before buried beneath the sudden and alarming knowledge that they faced an enemy that outnumbered even their combined forces by many. Kili could have been with them, putting all his own strategic training to good use, but he had never been as good at planning his battles as Fili had despite their shared studies, and he feared his presence in the same room as Dain might only lead to strife. No doubt Thorin had shared the tale of Kili's treachery with his cousin, and the last thing any of them needed right now was further distraction.

At his back the camp was noisily buzzing as the men, elves, and dwarves prepared for war, but up on the rise a still breath lingered, the air quiet and unmoving in preparation for what was to come. One could almost have mistaken the atmosphere for peaceful, had it not been for the thread of unease vibrating all around them as even the elves, their fair faces unusually grim and without the joyous laughter of a few hours before, reflected the dire nature of their standing. They did not betray it so easily as the men did, but there were signs for those who looked to see how hopeless most believed this situation to be.

"Prince Kili?"

Turning at the hail, Kili rose as he spotted Bard and Thranduil approaching, Gandalf and Bilbo, along with the elven King's honor guard, following at the two lords' heels. Further back he could see Dain and his own closest men angling away across the camp towards the dwarvish army at a cracking pace. A decision had clearly been made.

Joining him on the apex of the rise, Bard took a moment to loosely outline the strategy they had decided upon, explaining how they meant to use the two spurs that nestled the valley between them as as much of an advantage as they could get. A small force would draw the enemy in through the gap between Dale's western wall and Ravenhill, leading them into the midst of the valley, where both the forces of the free people would have the advantage of height. Kili suspected the man was not so much sharing his plan as running it through his mind as a means of seeking out any holes he and his companions had not yet foreseen. He listened nonetheless, and even as they talked the separate forces were already in motion, marching in orderly columns towards their designated points.

It was only once Bard was done that Kili broke his silence, inclining his head towards the Esgarothian lord as he said, "And where do you want me, Master Bowman?"

"Your Halfling friend intends to stand alongside the elves," Bard answered with a grim smile. "I would have you stand with me, if you would, and the rest of the archers. We will need every skilled hand we can muster."

Kili merely nodded his assent, throat too dry to offer an audible response, and set about burying his fear as deeply as it would go.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

_ 'He is leading us to our death, brother.'_

High upon the walls of Erebor Thorin Oakenshield stood alone, the rest of his companions banished to the depths to arm themselves on Dwalin's command, the warmaster having taken matters into his own hands when his friend and king remained uncharacteristically indecisive. Dwalin would go no further without him, he knew, but the very fact he had done so much already was a clear sign that his unshakable faith in Thorin was wavering. The two of them had known, and trusted, one another for too many years to count. They had fought together, grieved together, _survived _together time and time again, and for Dwalin to doubt him now…

In truth he could not blame his old friend, for he doubted himself.

'_Will you not speak to him?'_

Moria. It was a memory that would remain forever engraved on his mind. A nightmare he could not banish. The moment when Thror's insanity had reached its peak and nearly brought an entire people to ruin. The battle had been horrific, but more deeply engraved upon Thorin's mind were the events that had preceded it, and the clear, unhidden fear that had shone in his brother's eyes as Frerin begged him to act.

_'There is still time to turn back, if you could just make him see…'_

Frerin hadn't understood how deep Thror's madness ran. He hadn't realized that Thorin had already used every plea he could think of to try and make his grandfather cease what was surely a crusade to their deaths. But he _had_ seen Moria for what it was, a shining prize held aloft to draw them in like moths to a lantern, only to be struck dead the moment they drew near to the light. Moria had been death disguised as a future, and now Erebor threatened to become the same.

The boom of thunder overhead had drowned out the mighty crash of the battle commencing, but Thorin had not needed to hear it to see the terrible act unfolding. It was not a fair fight, and Roac had not overestimated the extent to which the free peoples would find themselves at a disadvantage.

_'I have tried, Frerin, but he is King, his will cannot be gainsaid.'_

_Bitter. Resigned. Afraid. 'A true King would not ask this of us.'_

He had promised himself he never would. He had sworn that Thror's fall would not be his own, that he would never require death of those who followed him. He had vowed to be what his grandfather should have been, a king who would never have sent his grandson to his death and doom, who would value blood above gold, kin above treasure… a resolution he had turned his back on the moment he drew his blade on his own nephew, and sent Kili to die in battle as surely as Thror had sent Frerin. It was Moria all over again, but this time _he_ was the mad king, and Fili and his younger brother seemed tragically bound to play the roles he and his own sibling once had.

"I am sorry," he whispered aloud, and knew not to whom he was speaking. His fallen brother, his wide-eyed fool of a nephew out there somewhere in that mass of death and destruction, or the elder brother down below who may yet come to bear the same burden of failure and grief he himself had shouldered for years.

_'Do not be sorry.' Dis glared at him over their brother's grave, fierce and sorrowful at once. '_Do _something_.'

And he did.

Swinging on his heel he strode swiftly to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the hall below, utterly unsurprised to find the Company already preparing to lower the barricade they had raised in the place of the gates to use as a bridge instead.

"Wait!" His shout stilled them all, most looking decidedly uneasy, few bearing the absolute faith they once had, in him or themselves. The battle had awakened them all, it seemed. It had shown them how far they had fallen. "Leave it," he commanded, in answer to their unvoiced question.

"No." Fili stepped forward, and this time Thorin was not surprised. "Uncle, this is our fight as much as it is theirs. We need to help them!"

Thorin had to admire his nephew's spirit, but he still shook his head. "Pulling that gate down now will not help them."

"Well, I, for one, am not going to stay here, caged like fish in a barrel," Bofur spoke up from his corner of the room, his cousin and brother alike backing him up without words.

"You will not open that gate." He made it an unmovable command this time.

Dwalin was watching him, a considering expression on his face, or perhaps it was a knowing one. He had years spent in Thorin's company to pull from, he probably realized what was truly afoot here, even if the others could not see it. Balin, too, held his peace, and it was Fili who once again took the lead, closing the space between them, anger on his young face.

"Kili is out there!" he all but shouted, accusation dripping from every word. "You _promised_ mother you would watch over him! You cannot just _leave_ him to die!"

"I am not." Thorin stepped forward suddenly, seizing Fili by the shoulders and meeting his enraged gaze directly. "Fili, I am _not_, I swear, but we must wait. You have seen the battlefield yourself. We would not get near any of our allies without being cut to pieces if we went now."

"But…" With his hands resting on Fili's shoulders, Thorin could feel the fine tremors wracking the young dwarf's frame. "Kili is…"

"I know." Kili was where Thorin had put him. Where greed and madness had put him. It fell to Thorin, then, to retrieve him safely. "But we will find him, Fili. There will be no promises broken this day."


	6. Chapter 6

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 6**

Kili would remember the battle later as nothing but a large blur with a few moments of clarity that stood out from their surroundings like a black spot of ink on Ori's white parchment. The enemy seemed endless, and he had spent his arrows long before he could see a visible dent in their ranks. Both armies were beset with numbers too great for them to readily repel, isolated on their separate ridges, surrounded and cut off from retreat. He fought back to back with whomever would stand beside him, the comforting weight of a familiar blade in his hand, his empty quiver jostling against his spine with every impact. There was an enemy before him no matter where he turned, orc, goblin or warg, and he was never still. He had lost track of Bard early on in the fight, when Azog proved himself not so easily fooled and another company of orcs who had climbed the mountain came raining down on them from above, and in the melee that followed it was all he could do to keep himself on the hilltop, and not in the midst of the enemy ranks who worked to slowly but determinedly whittle away their numbers.

Kili, as an heir of Durin, had studied warfare and tactics in his youth, even as such skills had seemed unnecessary in the far-off, peaceful realm of the Blue Mountains, but he did not need his knowledge of either to see that the creatures of shadow were slowly overwhelming them. The united peoples had nowhere to flee, the way back to their camps cut off and flight to the mountain equally untenable, and their numbers had been effectively divided by the sea of orcs and goblins that now made their two ridges as islands in the midst of uncrossable waters. Islands infested with savage monsters who desired nothing more than their deaths. They were losing, he realized, even as he swung his blade back and forth in rapid strikes to keep his foe at bay. They were losing, and it seemed that not even Gandalf could change the tide.

And it was in that moment, just as hope died within him, that Erebor shook to the great war cry of Thorin Oakenshield, and aid came unlooked for from the mountain's depths.

Kili saw the Company he had once belonged to burst forth from the mountain's shadow. Shining brilliantly in the finest armor Erebor had ever wrought, they carved a ruthless path through the enemy, cleaving their way through the immovable ranks as easily as a knife through butter. Elves, men, and dwarves alike rallied at the sight, and many streamed down from the hills to join in the charge. Reinvigorated, the united peoples fought on with new energy, taking advantage of the bewilderment that now took their adversary. For a short time, it even seemed as if victory was at hand, the shadowy army giving way before them, but in their excitement the forces of men, elves, and dwarves had overlooked the greatest flaw in Thorin's strategy. The King Under the Mountain had too few men to support him, his flanks were exposed, his rear unguarded, and in a circle around him the enemy now closed. Kili, now standing on a sharp, rocky ridge slightly above his once-comrades, watched with his heart in his mouth as the Company closed ranks around their leader, only to be torn apart and made to stand alone by the orcs.

At first he did not understand this reasoning. It seemed ludicrous for the orcs to spend lives separating the dwarves when they simply could have taken them all together, but his confusion lasted only as long as it took him to see Azog, striding proudly through the mayhem atop his white warg, mace in hand, and escort to either side. His guard darted forward as they neared Thorin, all mounted, and Kili very nearly cried out as he saw the dwarf king so beset, outnumbered and alone. Thorin fought with the same wild fire and eerie grace as he had always possessed, driving the enemy back again and again, but it could only last for so long. One of the wargs attacked from behind, Thorin fell, and Azog spurred his own mount on to finish the kill.

Kili was moving before he was even aware of his own limbs shifting, belting along the narrow ridge with as much speed as he had within him, reaching the end, and flinging himself off into space. The Warg turned as he leapt, having seen him out of the corner of its eye, but his flight did not take him far enough for its jaws to close around him. Instead he fell short, turning his forward momentum into a roll that took him beneath the creature's neck as he threw all his strength into cleaving his sword through the warg's neck. It broke through flesh and rock hard bone to sever the great White Warg's neck almost cleanly in half, and the creature's dying scream was all but deafening. Kili rose from his roll with wavering stability, the noise seeming to ring inside his very skull as he staggered forward, and that brief moment of imbalance would cost him everything.

Though an enraged growl behind him warned him of what was coming long before it struck, he did not have footing enough beneath him to turn in time to parry. The mace caught him instead across the shoulder and tore along his flank in passing to knock him flat on his back. He screamed as he felt bone giving way beneath the force of the blow, hitting the ground hard, air rushing from his lungs in a single gasp, and when he tried to breathe in again he found he could not, fingers as strong and hard as iron closing about his throat and lifting him bodily into the air as Azog leered at him mockingly.

"You have my admiration, dwarfling," he sneered, his voice a foul grate against Kili's ears. "You have accomplished a mighty feat in slaying my mount. It is just as well. Your kin shall have a great deed to carve upon your tomb_._"

Frantic, his lungs screaming for a reprieve and his shoulder erupting into fiery agony, Kili clawed uselessly at Azog's unmoving hand with his own still functioning limb, failing utterly to loosen the pale orc's hold. He had lost his sword when the mace struck him, leaving him unarmed and helpless save for... His hand flew to his quiver strap, fingers closing around the dagger that hung there. Drawing it forth in a single, smooth motion he drove it with all the strength he could muster into Azog's wrist. The Orc gave an enraged howl before all but flinging him away. Kili's back hit unforgiving stone a second time, only this time his head connected with the solid surface as well, blood trailing down his face from an injury he could not see. Lying at Azog's feet he gasped for breath as black spots danced before his eyes and his tortured throat and shattered shoulder screamed their protests. He could see his knife trapped in Azog's flesh, and it was with a vague sense of disinterest that he saw the monster raising his mace high above his head.

The mace fell, and as it did a great bellow of rage, unmistakably Thorin, split the air. His blade, one of those retrieved from the hoard of Erebor, met the pale orc's bludgeon a mere foot from Kili's unprotected chest, and he watched, still trapped in a shadowy world of indistinct twilight, as Thorin utterly repelled Azog's blow, taking a stance with a foot placed on either side of the fallen Kili as he proudly stared the bane of both his grandfather and father down.

"Ah, Thorin son of Thrain, at long last." Kili struggled to understand the words in his dazed state. "I was beginning to think I would have to cut down all your kin before you would face me again."

Thorin did not reply, invoking the strongest weapon he had ever borne; silence. There were few who could stand before the soundless stare of the King under the Mountain and still stand steady.

"Let us finish this, then!" Azog roared, swinging his weapon again, and Thorin leapt forward to meet him. The battle moved out of Kili's line of sight, and he was forced to simply listen to the clang of metal on metal that sounded all around him, desperately trying to distinguish the sound of his uncle's brand amongst the rest. A flash of blond hair and a cry more readily known to him than Thorin's let him know that Fili had joined the fight, and he let his eyes slide closed, knowing there was nothing more he could for either of them.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

"_Kili_!"

Dazed and dizzy, it was Fili's desperate scream that caused Thorin to lurch back into a state of mind fit for battle. He had been braced for death moments before, splayed on the ground and too winded to rise. That death had not come had surprised him, momentarily robbing him of his honed battle senses, but Fili's voice, stricken with horror, had brought them all rushing back, and he was on his feet before the final echoes of his nephew's cry had faded.

Thorin's life was not devoid of horror. He had dozens of nightmarish memories to draw from should he choose, but none of them, not a single one, could compare to the awfulness of seeing his youngest nephew dangling in the air, suspended by Azog's hand on his throat. It was worse than watching his grandfather's beheading, worse than his brother's mutilation, worse than the mountain of corpses that had been stacked against Moria's gates. Worse, because this was his _nephew_, the young dwarf he had played a part in raising, and the only reason Kili was in danger was because he had come to _Thorin's _rescue.

But he would not lose another. Not to that _beast_.

He ran, flying across the ground between he and they, blessing Kili's persistence as he watched the archer drive a dagger through Azog's arm just below his hand. The pale orc's retaliation was brutal, and Thorin let out a cry of both desperation and outrage as he leapt the last of the distance, bringing his sword to bear at the last possible moment. With a mighty thrust he forced Azog back, then adjusted his stance so he was standing over his fallen kin.

Azog spoke then, a cruel twist of his lips signifying his triumph, but Thorin blocked out the words and drew back his anger, allowing calm focus to take its place. There was no room for blind fury on the battlefield, their last confrontation had taught him that lesson well enough, and the stakes here today were too high to needlessly imperil the outcome of this fight. They were both wounded and, though Azog was doubtlessly fresher to the fight, this was likely to be the most even footing they would stand on.

He did not mean to waste the opportunity.

Blade and bludgeon met with a thundering crash as Thorin stepped to the side, letting his sword move with the overpowering weight of Azog's thrust. The orc captain had brute strength on his side, but his one good hand was crippled, so Thorin kept himself to that side, out of reach of the weapon that had replaced his adversary's left arm, acutely aware of the way Azog's followers had backed off in deference to their leader's duel. Instead they formed a ring around this small part of a larger battlefield, ensuring escape was not possible, and perhaps ensuring only one of the participants would survive no matter which was victorious.

They were not enough to keep Fili from his side, however, and Thorin was both relieved and alarmed to see his elder nephew break through the circle of enemies, his swift flight bringing him directly at Azog from the opposite side. There was rage on the blond prince's face, and Thorin quickly closed quarters with his opponent, determined not to allow the pale orc to take advantage of Fili's lack of caution. His blade intercepted Azog's mace once more, the two weapons snapping together like two pieces of a puzzle, the one caught on the other, unbalancing them both as Fili swept in and under the claw Azog had clearly meant to cleave him in two. The blond dwarf was quick to abandon the strike of sword that had lost its strength in his avoidance of certain death, and instead drove one of his smaller knives through a gap in their enemy's armor.

Enraged, Azog let go of his mace entirely, making Thorin stagger back as the counterweight to the force he was exerting suddenly gave way. Azog dismissed him, swinging about to thrust Fili away with savage ferocity. The young dwarf sailed through the air and landed roughly, but he began scrambling to his feet again swiftly enough that Thorin knew no true harm had been dealt.

And Azog was now unarmed.

Summoning his strength Thorin raced forward, his sword up and swinging, but Azog turned to meet him, catching the blade in his claw and throwing his power against Thorin's own. Thorin could not hope to hold him for long, not with Azog bringing all his weight to bear, but he dug in his heels regardless, grasping his sword in both hands and simply holding himself in place. He only needed to buy a few precious seconds. He only needed to allow Azog's mistake in ignoring Fili to become a fatal one.

His nephew was quick, light on his feet as he darted across the space between them, blade up and swinging even as their captive audience suddenly realized the peril their leader was in and began to riot in protest. Fili did not go for the killing strike, choosing not to end Azog then and there in retribution for his brother's injury. Instead Thorin's heir stepped in behind the great, pale orc even as Azog turned to intercept the expected fatal blow at a higher point, embedding one of his swords as deeply as it would go into the foul creature's leg. Taken by surprise Azog howled, crashing to his knees, and Thorin tilted his sword down and away, letting it slid free of the orc's claw, leaving his enemy open to attack.

In the end it only took one stroke.

Azog's wretched skull bounded across the ground, a snarl forever etched onto his vile features, and the world around both Fili and Thorin grew suddenly quiet. Unable to take the time to relish a victory that had been overly long in coming Thorin adjusted his grip on his blade and straightened, pushing his exhaustion away as he readied for what was sure to be a flood of enemies raining down upon them with naught but blood and vengeance on their minds.

That flood never came.

An elven company broke through from the left flank, the Prince of Mirkwood at their head, and set upon the orcs with dire intent. Leaderless, suddenly bereft of their captain, the enemy ranks parted beneath the onslaught, slowly but steadily falling back as the elven troop gained ground, and Thorin found himself outright staring as the Greenwood's prince directed his soldiers in what could only be a maneuver of defense. Fili was quicker to the realization than he, and Thorin started as his nephew cast his weapons aside for the second time, this time in wild abandon as he flew to his fallen brother's side.

"Kili!"

Thorin would have reprimanded him for casting his only means of protection away in the middle of the battleground, were it not for the cold terror silencing his voice. Instead he staggered somewhat unsteadily after his eldest nephew, crashing to his knees beside the pair as Fili cupped his brother's pale face in his hands.

"Kili, wake up. Please, Ki, open your eyes. _Please_."

No answer was forthcoming, and Thorin forced his gaze away from Kili's still and bloodless features to peel back the soaked layers of his tunic and examine the damage Azog had inflicted. His heart sank as he realized his nephew had entered the battle with nothing more than the light armor they had been given in Laketown; Weak, inferior, and certainly not capable of withstanding the brute force of Azog's attack. But the damage incurred by Esgaroth's lackluster wares was not his concern, and Thorin set to work on removing the mangled remains of Kili's breastplate, his breath leaving him in a sharp hiss as his eyes fell upon the mangled flesh, blood, and bone that was Kili's right shoulder. The mace had struck there, the full force of Azog's blow, but the spiked ends of the terrible weapon had gauged Kili's side as they passed, leaving deep rents in his flank. There was blood. There was a lot of blood, and Thorin found himself suddenly at a loss, his hands shaking with the realization of just how _bad_ Kili's wounds were.

"Uncle?" Fili eyes had drifted from his brother's face, the title he uttered a tremulous question, and when Thorin glanced up he found the elder brother's eyes fixed with stark terror on his younger sibling's injury.

"Put pressure here," he ordered, trying not to think of what additional pain they might inflict in trying to save the young dwarf's life. Waiting a beat to be sure Fili obeyed despite his blanching reaction Thorin started to his feet, whirling in search of his companions. Most were nowhere to be seen, separated from their King and commander long ago, but Balin and Dwalin had made it within the circle, and it was to them he now turned.

"Where is Oin?" he demanded. "Find him! Swiftly!"

He did not wait to see them go, his attention drawn back to his nephew's face as Kili stirred, a pitiful moan of agony escaping his lips as his eyelids fluttered erratically.

"Kili?" Fili leant forward and Thorin did the same, searching for that flash of brown, that precious sign of life. "Come on, Ki. Open your eyes for me. "

Kili whimpered, his face a mask of pain, and when his eyes did at last open, glazed and unfocussed, he did not look at Fili but past him, straight into the visage of Thorin Oakenshield.

"I did not mean to," he whispered, voice a threadbare strand, woven with guilt as tears carved tracks in the grime on his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I did not mean..."

Thorin almost staggered back in shock. _By Aule, what have I don_e?

"Hush, Kili." Kneeling again he reached out to mirror the stance Fili had held moments before, resting a hand on either side of his younger nephew's pain etched features, holding Kili's gaze with his own. "It is forgiven. It is all forgiven. Just hold on a little while longer. Just a little longer."

"It won't stop bleeding." Fili's control was slipping, Thorin could hear the raw panic seeping into his voice. "Thorin, it won't…"

He chanced a glance at where Fili's hands were pressed and immediately wished he had not. There was far, far too much blood. He turned back to Kili's face only to find there was no longer any focus in his eyes, the archer's gaze pointed upwards instead, his features absolutely colorless, his face a mask of anguish.

Where, in Durin's name, was Oin?

"Move aside, quickly, both of you!"

But it was not Oin who shoved him aside with a wooden stave, nor was it Oin who crouched now at Kili's side, one hand hovering over the young dwarf's wounds without actually touching anything. Thorin was once again rendered speechless by Gandalf's timely arrival, even more so when he recognized the Halfling who had led the wizard to their part of the battlefield.

"Can you help him?" Fili was begging unashamedly, his face streaked with tears. "Gandalf? Can you save him?"

"These wounds are beyond my skill to heal," the wizard answered gravely, and Thorin wavered for more reasons than simple exhaustion.

"I can get a litter," Bilbo suggested quickly. "They've been carrying the wounded off the field with…"

"No time for that." Gandalf brushed his suggestion aside, instead thrusting his staff upon the startled hobbit and stooping to gather Kili in his own arms. The wounded dwarf cried out at the sudden jostling, then fell utterly limp. Gandalf, effectively ignoring them all, turned as if to leave, but Thorin regained his voice before the wizard could depart.

"Gandalf!"

The being bearing the appearance of a weary, old man yet carrying a weight no such man could have carried turned at his hale, and Thorin did not flinch from the wizard's gaze. There were many things he could have said in that moment, and perhaps more that he should have, but the only words that escaped him were the simplest and purest desire in his heart in that single moment.

"Keep him safe."

It was not a smile he received in return, for none could have smiled under the circumstances they now lingered in, but it was the closest to such an expression that Thorin believed he would see.

"You have my word," Gandalf promised, and then he was gone, taking the hobbit and Thorin's nephew with him. Fili moved as if to follow, but Thorin stayed him with a hand on his sleeve.

"Uncle," Fili protested at once. "He's my brother. I want to…"

"I know." Were it up to him, he would have allowed Fili to go, but the battle was not yet done, and it was clear that they needed every able pair of hands to be wielding a weapon. "But the fight is not over, and we need you here."

Fili hesitated, poised to argue, and so Thorin spoke again.

"Not even the wizard will be able to help Kili if the enemy reaches the camp. We have a duty, Fili, and we cannot ignore it."

The look his nephew shot him was one of anguished indecision, Fili's gaze darting along the path the wizard had cloven, then back to the enemy regrouping in the valley below. It was a terrible choice, Thorin knew, just as he knew Fili would choose the right course. He was not disappointed, for, when indecision was finally swept away by resolve, Fili moved to retrieve his discarded weapons, clutching both in his hands with a white knuckled grip as he joined his uncle in moving to flank the elven guard that had come to their defence when they needed it most. From their position they could see the goblin army now racing towards them once more. Having found their labile courage beneath the whip of a new captain they battered their way through every defence raised before them, and Thorin once more found himself pressing concerns and exhaustion from his mind, focusing himself for a battle that may well be his last. There was no retreat from this point, with the mountain cut off from reach, and flight to the camps meaning nothing but death for the wounded luckily enough to have been borne from the field that far.

There was no retreat, and so they stood firm, shoulder to shoulder, King and Prince, and faced their doom head on.


	7. Chapter 7

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 7**

Kili was lost.

Phantom shapes whirled around him, black and white silhouettes so blurred he could hardly distinguish one from the other. Voices came and went, human and inhuman, vicious murmurs and fearful cries, a crescendo that dulled to a whisper before rising to an unbearable wail, the words uttered eluding him. Hands pawed at him, igniting the fire licking at his side and shoulder, turning it into a fully fledged blaze that caused his body to jerk sporadically as fingers tightened in a bruising hold to keep him still. Something hard was pressed to his lips as a cold liquid meandered its way down his aching throat. He choked more often than not, struggling to swallow whilst not fully aware, and the voices rose in seeming despair at his inadequacy.

A noise escaped him that might have been a sob, and he struggled against the unseen weight pressing down against him. Why was it so hot? Had he fallen into fire without marking his descent? And the pain... Pain in his side, flaring about his shoulder and stretching across his torso in ripples of agony. He flinched as a cool hand landed on his brow, but the touch was not withdrawn even as another pair of hands adjusted the weight he now realized was a coverlet.

When...?

"He is getting worse," someone murmured, and he thought it might have been Bilbo. "Isn't there something you can do?"

His answer came in a heavy sigh, and Kili could not stop the noise of protest that churned in his throat when that blessedly cool touch was removed.

"Even wizards have their limits, Bilbo Baggins," was Gandalf's answer. "I fear I have reached mine."

The wizard and the hobbit only. None of the Company seemed to be present, and for a moment his fevered mind panicked at that realization. Then the memory of what had happened above Erebor's gate came flooding back, and Kili was reminded of why he no longer had the right to expect the presence of any friends save those already lurking at his bedside.

Another wave of pain hit him, not wholly due to his wounds, and he cried out as his mind abandoned control of his body. He heard raised voices, shouts directed at him as hands flew to hold his convulsing form still, but he twisted away from their touch, their fingers scalding against his skin. The world closed in around him, he couldn't breathe, and he remembered the way those vice-like fingers had closed about his neck. His hand jerked of its own accord, searching for the blade that would free him, but his fingers closed on empty space as a sickly sweet scent filled the air.

"Fili!" His brother's name escaped his lips in a frantic cry, even as he knew it would not go answered. Exiled, Thorin had said. Cast out. Cut off. Abandoned. He screamed his uncle's name regardless, seconds before something cold and sickly sweet again scalded its choking path down his throat.

"Drink!" a foreign voice coaxed. "You must drink."

But he fought instead, screaming out names whose right to utter he no longer possessed. He almost made it up off the bed in defiance to his injuries, then another grip joined the others in a splayed hand across his chest, and he was pressed back down onto the pallet.

"Please," he did not know what he was saying, or to whom, for the words simply came of their own accord and his vision was nothing more than a hazy blur of colors. "Please. I am sorry, _please_."

Someone answered his words in a distant rumble that went marked but unheard as the strain of clinging to the conscious world became too much. Darkness closed in, and the light was swept away.

Time slipped away from him, passing in alternating fits of haste and absolute stillness, when a single moment dragged on for a seeming eternity. He saw blurred colors and looming shadows, heard many voices intermingled, his own sometimes among them, though he did not recall uttering a sound. There was heat and there was cold, gripping him one after the other, and when he moved, when he thrashed to escape the furnace, there was pain. White, blinding pain rippling down his shoulder and side. It, too, ebbed and flowed, leaving him gasping for breath in the interim and robbed completely of air when each reprieve ended.

He was conscious of not being alone in his torment, words drifting around him more often than not, hands alternating their grip between his hand, his arm, and his shoulder. But none of those who watched over him seemed aware of the fire trying to burn him alive. He tried to tell Bofur once, or the shadow he believed to be Bofur, but the cheerful toymaker simply smoothed his damp hair away from his face and told him to go back to sleep. He did not do so willingly, but his body craved the surrender his mind did not wish to give, and the one easily overpowered the other.

He remembered waking once to Balin's presence and asking in a voice too weak to be his own after his brother. He had drifted off before a response could be given, though the gentle smile that had slipped so suddenly from the old dwarf's face haunted his restless slumber. He voiced the same question again and again each time he startled back to a state of wakefulness, but the myriad of different faces that greeted him always withheld a response, and he could rarely muster the strength for a scowl before sleep claimed him once more.

Awareness, when it came at long last, came slowly and reluctantly, much like the time he had fallen into the frigid, rushing waters of a winter flood only to have them close over him and refuse to open again. Someone had dragged him from the black depths then, but this time he was forced to drag himself, resisting the persistent pull that threatened to haul him back again. There was a pressing urgency at the back of his mind driving him onwards and upwards, and, though his eyes remained leaden weights, his ears attuned themselves to the conversation drifting all around him.

"...going to tell him?" Dwalin asked in a low rumble. "You can't put it off forever."

"I know." Balin sighed, sounding weary and heartsick. "But you heard what the healer said..."

Dwalin snorted. "The _elf_ healer," he emphasized. "Dwarves have stouter hearts. We don't fade with grief."

Balin made a noise that could have been either agreement or disagreement, Kili would never know, for at that point his eyes finally decided to respond to his prompting, flickering open to be scorched by a cruelly bright light. Groaning in protest he tried to throw up a hand to shield his gaze, only to find his right arm bound tightly again his chest, utterly immobile. The moment of confusion he spent deducing that fact was enough time for Dwalin to shut the open tent flap, cutting off the bright beam of setting sunlight that had been flooding through the entrance.

"Kili?" Balin sounded tentatively hopeful. "Are you with us, laddie?"

"Maybe," he muttered hoarsely, voice further muffled by the left arm he had thrown up in the place of his right. The more awake he became the more aware he was of the numerous aches and pains assailing him, and he sincerely wished in that moment to return to the slumber he had fought so hard to escape. Waking up had no right to be this _painful_, and he had half a mind to go back to sleep until it decided to act as it ought.

Dwalin gave a low chuckle at his response, and Kili's raised his arm just enough to cast a sour glare the warmaster's way. This only appeared to amuse him more, so that he was laughing outright by the time he reached the bedside.

"Here you go," he prompted, masterfully avoiding Kili's tightly bound shoulder as he hefted the archer up into a sitting position, balancing him on several pillows, though most felt too hard to _be _actual pillows. "Let's get you upright."

Kili, with full agreement from his spinning head, would have much preferred to stay lying down. At least at first. Once the tent stopped swaying like a drunken, dancing dwarf and the black spots jumping across his line of sight vanished sitting up was far more pleasurable than being laid out flat on his back, especially when Bombur appeared with impossibly fortuitous timing bearing a steaming bowl in hand. It was only broth, nothing like the magnificent stews their self-appointed cook had prepared when their supplies were plentiful, but Kili was too ravenous to care, completely ignoring Balin's cautionary words and his own unsteady grip as he wolfed down his first meal in Durin knew how long.

With his hunger temporarily satisfied, Kili could feel drowsiness setting in again, but he shook it off determinedly, wanting answers, and knowing he would not get them if he fell asleep. Instead he used his good arm to push himself further upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with stubborn persistence that easily surmounted the incomprehensibly difficult task that proved to be. Balin was making noises of disapproval behind him, urging him not to try standing yet, and Kili obeyed only because he was certain his current position would be enough to stop him from drifting off.

Impatiently, he waited until Bombur had left the room, then, into the silence that fell, he spoke, "Mr. Balin?"

Did he imagine the glance that was exchanged between the two before a gentle answer came? "Yes, Kili?"

"Thorin and Fili," he ventured, and certainly didn't imagine the look this time. "Where are they? Did... Is Thorin still angry at me?"

A reprieve had likely been too much to ask for, after what he had done, but seeing Balin and Dwalin here had given him hope. Looking at their faces now, though, he knew he must have been mistaken. Thorin had not forgiven him, and his words uttered above Erebor's front gate still stood.

"Kili, lad," Balin began, and Kili braced himself for the blow the old dwarf was trying to soften. "Thorin _did_ forgive you, though I daresay you weren't in any fit state to hear his words, let alone comprehend what was being said."

"But, then..." The churning of his stomach was not at all due to the haste with which he had consumed the broth. "Where is he? Where's Fili?"

"He's dead," Balin said heavily. "I'm sorry, Kili, they both are."

Kili froze, the words slamming into him with as much force as Azog's mace had as his world collapsed around him for the second time. His heart felt like it had been trapped between hammer and anvil, pounded relentlessly until the pain became the only rhythm he had ever known. His lungs refused to draw breath, a great weight on his chest that made even the slightest inhale ache with a ferocity he could not understand, and his eyes burned. Oh, how they burned! Tears, hot and scalding, seething to life, though not quite ready to fall. Through vision blurred by their lingering wetness, he watched Balin's lips continue to move without hearing a single word, the ghastly pressure holding him immobile shielding him from further pain, even as he struggled to comprehend the initial onslaught.

_Dead_.

It was but a single word, and yet it carved a searing path through his mind that irreparably rent his heart in two, leaving him balancing on wavering limbs, unsure how he had come to be standing, and wondering what had become of the solid ground that had once lain beneath his feet. Of the solid presence that had once stood beside and before him. He wanted to say something. _Ought_ to say something. Demand circumstances, proof, _anything_, but he remained trapped, rough iron forced between anvil and hammer, beaten now into a fine steel with a lethal edge.

"Kili." Dwalin's hand landed on his shoulder, and his head turned of its own accord to meet the dour dwarf's oddly compassionate gaze. "Do you need to sit down?"

_Does he_? The question left him feeling no less dazed, and he wavered a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels and only half heeding the way Dwalin took a hold of his arm by the elbow to steady him.

"No…" he heard himself say, the word as distant as all that now surrounded him, still raspy from the unforgiving hands that had all but crushed his windpipe days before. "No, I… I don't…" His eyes fixed themselves on Balin, still standing before him, but no longer speaking, and the haze of shock hovering over his mind finally abated just enough for those terrible, _terrible_ words to spill from his lips. "They're _dead_?"

"Aye, lad," Balin's gaze was wary, and grieved. Deeply, _deeply _grieved. "I'm sorry."

"_You're _sorry?" The words struck him as hilarious for no reason at all, and he laughed, the sound brittle and broken. So very _broken_. Balin frowned then, and that was even funnier, though for the life of him Kili could not understand why. Why? That was the question now, wasn't it? _Why_?_ Why?_ _WHY_? "You're sor… They can't be dead."

He would _know_. If Fili was gone. If he was departed from the land of the living, Kili would _know_. He would have felt his heart twist and break already, as the other half he had never had to do without vanished completely. He would _know_.

"Kili," Balin was trying to be gentle, but at the same time firm. "I saw them fall myself, lad, they're gone."

Kili stared at him a moment, frozen in that way Fili always teased him about, like a rabbit caught suddenly without its cover, his eyes wide and face still. Then rage broke over him in a sudden, all encompassing wave, and he lunged at the elder dwarf, fury bringing words that sparked with ire to his lips.

"_Liar_!" Dwalin pulled him back, and he fought the seasoned warrior wildly, even as his gaze remained on Balin's saddened expression. "You _lie_! They're not _dead_. Thorin wouldn't _die_! He wouldn't let Fili… He wouldn't…"

The ground pitched beneath him suddenly, his body protesting the sudden exertion he had inflicted upon it, and he was on the floor before he could quite comprehend what had happened. He continued to struggle regardless, even as another voice added itself to the cacophony that seemed to have arisen around him.

"Hold him! _Hold_ him! For Durin's sake, keep that shoulder still!"

They pinned him on his back, Balin seizing a hold of his legs and Dwalin wrapping an arm about his chest, holding both shoulders to the floor as Oin shouted instructions. Kili fought them for all he was worth, ignoring the slight burn in his shoulder and side, dulled by whatever medicine the healers had given him, as he bucked and twisted beneath their hands, desperately trying to escape. He did not know what he was fighting exactly – His friends? Their words? Or the horrible truths contained therein? – but, no matter the enemy, his confused and anguished mind bid him to fight, and so he did, spitting curses and denials at the dwarves whose faces merged into the orcs of his memory.

"Kili!" A calloused hand came to rest on either side of his head, and the voice that spoke his name was a deep, familiar baritone above him. He hesitated, breaths heaving and catching in his lungs as he tried to focus his blurry vision, and the voice kept speaking. "That's it, lad. Deep breaths. You're okay now, you're alright. I've got you."

The pressure holding him in place slowly diminished until it was gone entirely, and he blinked away the shadows blotting out the worried face above him, sucking in great gulps of air that threatened to choke him.

"D-Dwalin?"

"I'm here, lad," Dwalin nodded, not releasing his hold on Kili's head as he made sure the younger dwarf kept his attention on the bald dwarf and nothing else. "Just relax."

"I can't," he moaned, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the floor. His next utterance was a wail, a keening cry of loss. "Fili..."

Dwalin shushed him, but the damage was already done. With his anger and panic stripped away the grief both had been holding at bay was given free reign, and he shook as he closed his eyes again, broken sobs wrenched from his body before he had a chance to swallow them back. Tears followed, and there was no stopping once he had begun. The rough touch of Dwalin's hands vanished, then reappeared a moment later as the warrior gently levered him into an upright position, allowing Kili to hide his face in the shoulder of his tunic. The young dwarf didn't hesitate to do so, wrapping his one good arm around the warmaster and letting his sorrow carry him where it would.


	8. Chapter 8

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 8**

Bilbo Baggins had expected many things when he ran out his front door with nary a pocket-handkerchief in his possession. Adventure, excitement, sights such as he had never seen before. He had had them all, too, in good measure, along with a dozen side dishes he hadn't been prepared for, some pleasant, but most decidedly not. The journey that had brought him here was an epic account all on its own, which was just as well, because Bilbo wasn't sure he'd ever have the stomach to recount what had happened after their goal had been reached.

Battle. War. It was often made to sound glorious in the old stories, or made light of as Gandalf had that long off day in Bag End, but the reality was much harsher. Bleak and bloody and filled with death. It seemed unaccountably cruel that they should have made it this far only to now be three short of fourteen at their journey's end, with two of those spaces never to be filled again. It wasn't a proper ending, he thought. It wasn't the way their story should have reached its conclusion, though there was no denying that that was exactly what had happened. Not with every one of his ten companions looking so somber, their discussions muted, and that was when they were speaking at all. Not even Bofur, indomitable spirit that he had always been, seemed capable of breaking through the gloom, and the encroaching shadow of another night could scarcely measure up to that lurking inside all their hearts.

Raising a hand, he absently ran it along the bandage wrapped around his own head, a lasting reminder that what had happened had been more than a dream, if any more proof had been needed. None of the company had escaped unscathed, and, though Kili had suffered the worst wounds, none of the others were free of injury either. It would be weeks before Ori was allowed off his crutches, and Bilbo couldn't help but admire Bombur's skill in still being able to cook when his dominant hand had been crushed so thoroughly. The rest of the Company sported bruises, cuts, and scratches of their own, even Balin and Dwalin, though neither of the pair had spent much time in the healers' domain for their own sake. Instead the two brothers seemed to have devoted every waking hour to the welfare of the youngest heir of Durin. The _only_ heir of Durin, he reminded himself miserably, a fact which Kili had, somewhat predictably, not taken overly well.

Shock. That was the official diagnosis Oin had given when Kili opened his eyes for the second time and then did nothing more than that. Thorin's younger nephew hadn't spoken a word since the previous evening, barely even acknowledging the various members of the Company who each took their turns sitting with the young prince. Bilbo himself had spent the majority of the day under the same roof as his fellow conspirator, finding even the sober mood within preferable to the sights and smells left over in the wake of the battle, and thus he'd been free to observe the various and largely ineffective means the remaining members of the Company employed to try and coax Kili out of his shell.

Bofur came first, with a cheerful grin and mirth that was only slightly strained as he happily recounted Nori's exploits in thieving since they had been confined to the camp, the disreputable dwarf still as light fingered as ever despite sporting a broken arm. Nori himself showed Kili some of his spoils later – mainly elvish ware, Bilbo noted – as he laughingly and shamelessly told his own tale of his deeds. Dori fussed, Bombur plied him with food, Oin added his own words of wisdom atop that of the elven healers who poked and prodded and exchanged worried glances over Kili's head, whilst Gloin spoke of sending word to Ered Luin that the mountain was theirs again and it was safe for their families to join them.

"Your ma will be with them," he had said, the words surely meant to comfort, but Kili didn't even turn his head.

Ori came in the early evening, on crutches with a badly broken leg, but wearing a determined smile and somehow managing to hold his journal in place beneath one arm. The elves had restored it to his possession, he told an unresponsive Kili, and placed the weathered book in the young prince's lap. Bilbo had watched with bated breath as Kili's gaze drifted down to the sketch laid before him, the archer visibly startling, before raising his good hand to reverently trace the lines through which the scribe had immortalized he and his brother. The spell lasted barely a minute, however, and then Kili was turning away, his eyes clenched shut as silent tears trailed down his cheeks, the journal sliding forgotten off his legs. Ori's face fell as he retrieved his precious collection of drawings, the youngest member of the Company turning helplessly to Bilbo.

"I thought it would help."

Bilbo could only shake his head and mutter some meaningless placation as he ushered the scribe out of the tent, with no more answers to offer than any of the others.

In the end it was Bifur who proved the most suitable companion for the grieving prince, the oftentimes unintelligible toymaker showing himself to be more adept than any of them in the task of caring for their injured comrade. Perhaps it was because Bifur did not try to offer comfort through words, instead extending what solace he could through touch; one hand resting on Kili's arm whilst the other moved in gentle, paternal strokes through the archer's hair. It was, Bilbo reflected as he looked on in silence, all the proof anyone could have needed that Bifur had once been a father, and that, even if he understood nothing else at all, the impaired dwarf understood grief.

Content that Kili was, for the moment at least, in the care of capable hands, Bilbo took the opportunity to escape from the tent's confines just in time to catch the last rays of the setting sun. Whether through a trick of the fading twilight or his own practiced stealth his exit from the shelter went unmarked, and thus the conversation taking place between Dain of the Iron Hills and Balin did not end when he drew within hearing distance.

"… take time," Dain said gruffly. "But that is a commodity we do not have in plentiful supply. Winter is drawing in, and you know as well as I that we have too many wounded to move all that need moving to safe shelter elsewhere. There are debts yet to be settled, and little time in which to see the settling done. The provisions that have yet to be made..."

"_Shall_ be made," Balin asserted, not with force, but a certain amount of immovability. "I have spoken with Bard already, and he in turn has acted as an intermediate with King Thranduil."

"And how long have you brought?" Dain challenged. "Do you mean to bargain with the weather as well? These are not decisions you can put off forever."

"I am not putting them off, but they are neither yours nor mine to make," came Balin's level response. "That right belongs to Kili, as you well know."

"And if he proves unfit to make them?" Dain's question was met with a few, brief seconds of resounding silence where Bilbo knew Balin would normally have had words ready and waiting. "Do not mistake my intent, Balin, for I am not questioning his right to rule. He is of the Line of Durin, and Thorin's heir, that I will not argue, but he is also young and grieving."

"So was Thorin, when the duty fell to him," Balin remarked. "So were you."

"And yet neither of us succumbed to grief as Kili has."

"It has only been a day," Balin argued. "He's injured. Give the lad a chance…"

'Not a lad, Balin," Dain cut him off. "Not anymore. If he is to rule Erebor, he cannot afford such luxuries any longer, and I cannot hold the doubters at bay forever."

The pause this time was one of wary confusion.

"Doubters?" Balin said sharply, the words a question.

"The tale of how the Arkenstone came to rest in the hands of men and elves has become all but common knowledge," Dain answered gravely. "There is discontent among the seven, doubt that one who would sell Erebor's heart to its enemies is worthy of wearing a crown, and for those who may have overlooked that offence there is the sickness to concern them."

"That is no concern at all," the old dwarf countered swiftly. "Kili was never touched by it, not even when we all succumbed."

"So you say." Dain remained neutral on the subject. "But Thorin remained free of that curse at first as well. There is no guarantee Kili will not follow in the footsteps of his predecessors with age and time enough to do so."

Bilbo didn't need to be able to see the pair to know that Balin was shaking his head. "There is no guarantee for any of us."

"With that I would agree," said Dain. "But it is not me you must convince, Balin. Kili is neither Thorin's son nor his chosen heir, and, whilst his bloodline grants him an undeniable right to claim the throne, he is not the only one with such a right. The trust that once existed in Thror's line has dwindled, many do not wish to see a direct descendant of his line rule in Erebor. The envoys of the seven are calling for a council, and it may well be that they will do their utmost to see to it Kili does not ascend to the throne."

"So you will stand against him?" Balin's voice held a measure of coldness Bilbo had not heard before from the old dwarf. "After all that has already been taken from the lad, you would claim more?"

"I would stand for that very reason," Dain sighed. "Think ill of me if you will, Balin, but I have stood where Kili stands now, and it is not something I would wish upon anyone. If nothing else, he deserves the right to be given a choice, and perhaps you should consider whether or not he even _wants_ to rule before you foist that duty upon him."

The Lord of the Iron Hills did not wait for Balin's response, his heavy footsteps moving away from where the oldest member of the Company remained standing, and Bilbo hastened to scurry off himself before he was caught doing what a Baggins should never be caught doing. The words the pair had exchanged lingered on his mind for some time afterwards, until at last he resolved to share his troubled thoughts with someone who may be able to set his worries at ease.

"Gandalf," he said to himself. "I must find Gandalf."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

He woke, and he _knew_.

There was no moment of unawareness. No blissful second where he reached for his brother expecting Fili to be there before cold, hard reality set in. No brief minute when he mistook the footsteps outside for his uncle's heavy tread. There was just the _knowing_, the terrible news that came flooding back the moment his mind started towards wakefulness and left him lying on his back with his eyes clenched tightly shut in a vain attempt to shut out the painful truth.

'You know nothing of the world' Thorin had told him, but even then he had not understood what those words meant. He had seen danger and even death before the quest to Erebor, but he had also known with unerring certainty that Fili and Thorin would be there to aid him to his feet should he ever stumble, and guard him when he was vulnerable, as they had always done. Except now both brother and uncle were robbed from him, and he realized at last what a cold, harsh world was his own. He knew nothing of the world no longer, for he knew now it was cruel.

How did one pick up the pieces of a life that had always consisted of two? How was he to reconcile himself to losing both brother and uncle a second time within but a few days, this time in a way final and complete? No betrayal could bring them back this time, though he would have withstood Thorin's scathing condemnation a thousand times over if it would have just set things right. Because this was wrong. It _had_ to be wrong. The alternative was unthinkable and heartbreaking and _destroying_. How had he ever imagined he had lost everything when Thorin cast him out of Erebor? By comparison, what had been taken from him then were just trifles, and having them back now – having, as Dwalin and Balin had claimed, Thorin's forgiveness – meant nothing if the lives of his kin were the price to pay.

He was aware of his companions moving around him as the day wore on, worried voices drifting back and forth across him, some words directed at him, some about him, and some their own conversation entirely, but he couldn't muster the will to offer any of them a response. None of them were the faces he wanted to see, the voices he wanted to hear, and it was easier to withdraw from them all than acknowledge the fact those that were absent would never return. He made the mistake of glancing down at the sketch that Ori laid in his lap, and the fresh wave of pain that sight invoked was more than enough to justify his retreating again, closing his eyes and determinedly cutting the world off completely.

Sleep claimed him for a time, shallow and restless, never becoming a slumber deep enough for dreams. Never allowing him a chance to remember, or to forget. He startled awake to candlelight, and a conversation that had started without him.

"Dain's pushing," Balin's voice floated overhead and he blinked slowly, aware of Bifur's hand moving back and forth across the top of his head in gentle strokes. The wounded dwarf had once been a father, he was reminded, and, though he was of an age now that such comfort should not be needed, he found the gesture calming regardless. "He says there is unrest in the camps. The ambassadors of the seven kingdoms are raising a fuss. Many are saying if the Prince of Erebor is awake he should be down there with them."

"Barely awake," Dwalin growled from somewhere off to his right, and Kili blinked again, watching the mottled patterns of candlelight on the ceiling. "I'd like to see Dain on his feet so soon after such injuries."

"You may not like what he has to say or the dwarf himself," Balin replied. "But there is truth to his words. Dain is down among his people every day, making provisions for the wounded, organizing fit burials for the dead. He has even begun work within Erebor in preparation for those who will need to shelter there through the winter. He claims to be acting in Kili's stead, but the more duties he sees to and the more decisions he makes on Erebor's behalf the stronger his position to claim the throne will be."

"Let him try," Dwalin said darkly. "He wouldn't dare face the dragon, and, had the enemy not come upon us so unexpectedly, I have no doubt he would have left us to the mercy of the goblins and wargs too. A coward is no fit king."

"It isn't cowardly to want to keep your people safe," Balin's correction was reasonable and levelheaded as always. "Facing Smaug in battle could have been the end of Dain's army, and could easily have brought the wrath of the dragon down upon the Iron Hills. He came when Thorin called, and he fought beside us when it counted. Do not forget that Dain was present at Moria, where his father died. He had more than enough reason to be wary of another mad scheme concocted by Thror's line."

Dwalin snorted, but did not rebuke Balin's words, and the eldest of the Company moved to Kili's bedside.

"Are you awake, lad?" he asked gently, one hand moving to rest on Kili's shoulder. Kili drew in a shuddering breath, but did not respond, lying immobile with absolutely no desire to change his current position. Balin gave him a few moments, clearly awaiting a response, then let out a sigh and withdrew his hand. The purpose of this was, he realized a moment later, to allow the old dwarf to retrieve the chair that had been set just out of his peripheral sight, but he paid the act no more mind than it took to realize that much, diverting his attention to the fabric forming the ceiling of his small sanctuary.

"It was not Azog," Balin said, and Kili absently wondered if that was supposed to make him feel grateful. If the fact his closest kin had _not_ been slain by the beast that had stolen so many of Durin's line from the living world should have eased the ache now settled into his very being. "You bought Thorin the moment he needed, and he and Fili made that monster pay dearly for his crimes. His body was burnt alongside that of the other enemy fallen, a more fitting end than he deserved."

He paused, allowing Kili the chance to interrupt, but the youngest heir of Durin did not even turn his head. Doing so would have meant acknowledging that Balin was there, and his brother _wasn't_.

"We thought you lost at first," the old dwarf beside him confessed. "Lying still as death upon the battlefield. It was a miracle to find you still breathing."

Kili bitterly thought it was a miracle he could have done without. He could almost imagine Fili chiding him for even entertaining such an idea for a second, but that was all it was, his imagination. Fili would never chide him again, nor would Thorin. He was alone and lost and in pain, and he did not know what he was meant to do next.

"Azog's fall gained us a moment to breathe," Balin continued, despite his unresponsive audience. "The enemy scattered, momentarily leaderless, and our forces were able to drive them back enough to allow the wounded to be retrieved from amongst the fallen. Thorin used that time to have you carried to safety, before the enemy regrouped under a new captain. Fili wanted to go with you, but we needed every able-bodied warrior on the field. We were outnumbered, the odds stacked against us, and death was almost certain for us all. They charged us and we were separated, all of us suddenly surrounded by strangers, but I could see Thorin and Fili still together, standing back to back, as a wave of enemies came crashing down upon them with Bolg at their head." The storyteller paused again, to draw breath this time, but only for a moment. "It was the eagles that saved us. Them and Beorn, storming into the fray in the final hour. They crashed through our enemy, trapping them between our two forces, and only those who were fortunate enough to flee escaped their due recompense. Without the aid of Beorn and the eagles, however, none of us would have lived to tell the tale, no matter how wretched a tale it has proven to be."

Wretched indeed, Kili thought, closing his eyes. It had not brought him peace, hearing how they had died, as Balin had no doubt hoped, and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his grief. He heard Balin sigh, then the old dwarf reached across him, taking a hold of his unbound hand and pressing something cool and familiar into his palm. He startled, the touch of the metal against his skin sending a shock rippling up his good arm, and his fingers tightened of their own accord, the achingly familiar shape of the metal digging sharply into his skin. As four pairs of eyes watched with bated breath he raised his hand slowly, staring at the clasp clutched in his fingers, before letting his gaze shift to Balin's own.

"Can I see them?" His voice came out a shaky whisper despite his best efforts. It was not a request he had thought to make before, but now, with the cool metal sitting in his hand, he found himself gripped by the need to _see_ his brother, dead or alive. Fili deserved a proper farewell, and it would be nothing short of cowardice to not fulfill his duties on that count.

"No, lad," Balin answered hesitantly. "There were no bodies. Only the clasp. We thought you might like to have... well, something."

Balin's words echoed inside his head as his confusion mounted, a strange feeling forming in the pit of his stomach as his mind poked and prodded at this new piece of information. There had only been the clasp, but no remains. Kili frowned, closing his fist until the pressure became painful, the sharp edges of the metal grounding him as nothing else had been able to since he first heard the terrible news. They had not found Fili. They had not found Thorin.

Hope almost choked him.

"There were no bodies?" he repeated aloud, staring up at Balin desperately.

"They had wargs, lad," the old dwarf reminded him gently. "A pack of them, born and bred to maim and kill. There's not always a body to find."

He knew what Balin was trying to say without actually uttering the words, had in fact seen what the old dwarf spoke of on the battlefield, fangs dripping blood and a life quite literally torn to shreds. But this was Thorin, this was _Fili_, his brother, and if there was even the slightest chance… His stomach twisted again as he pushed himself into a sitting position, staring at the clasp in his hand, his mind swinging back and forth between hope and dread.

"How do you _know_?" he asked. "How do you know they're gone? They could have been taken or…"

"Kili, lad." Balin laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly to halt his flow of words. "Those that fled did so with many hunters on their tails. They would not have had the time or the opportunity to carry prisoners with them. Thorin and Fili… they are not the only ones to be counted amongst the… the missing. I am sorry, but they are gone, and that is something you are going to have to accept."

But Kili did not want to. Not if there was a choice. Not if this could all be a nightmare, untrue the moment he proved it was otherwise.

"Where's Gandalf?" he demanded, already pushing himself to the edge of the bed. "I need to speak with him."

"What you need is more rest," Balin replied sternly, pushing him down with he tried to rise. "Time to think on what has happened. There are… other matters that need to be spoken of, and for that you need a clear mind."

Kili paused to stare at him, confused and bewildered, for what could be more important than this? "What other matters?"

Balin shook his head, both hands now resting on Kili's shoulders, his face troubled. "You are not ready to hear this."

Unease coiled in his stomach, deep and foreboding. "Hear what?"

Balin still hesitated, and Kili's gaze darted about the others present. Bilbo was determinedly averting his eyes, and even Dwalin, stoic in the face of any danger, chose to stare at his own boots rather than to answer. Bifur returned his gaze steadily, but offered no words, and it was to Balin that Kili turned again at last.

"Mister Balin?"

"Erebor is ours," the Company's eldest said slowly. "We have our kingdom once more." He paused, and Kili's heart was a drumbeat in his chest, his mind grasping the words to come before they were even uttered. "A kingdom that requires a king."


	9. Chapter 9

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 9**

Peace and plenty. That was how Balin had described the lives of the exiled dwarves in Ered Luin. Peace and plenty, a wealth founded not on gold but iron and other metals, more than enough to provide for a people, even if it was not the wealth and splendor they knew. But Ered Luin had had its own treasure, unseen, intangible, but just as precious and jealously guarded as all the gold in Erebor. Because Ered Luin had been safe. A place where people could live without concern for their wellbeing, and where children could be raised as children, not the warriors circumstances had so often made their parents. It was there, in a sanctuary hard-won but worth every ounce of sacrifice that had gone into its making, that two princes had been raised by their mother and uncle to know of the outside world and a kingdom lost without experiencing any of the hardship that went with the tales their elders told. Truth be told, the youngest members of the Company were older than he himself had been when calamity struck, and the youth they displayed was not a sign of years not yet lived, but rather the carefree existence their uncle had made certain was theirs. Thorin had lived through enough tragedies to be justified in his desire to spare his sister-sons the same grief and, though he had made sure they knew danger lurked beyond their borders and how to defend themselves against it, he had kept intact something the older generation had lost far too young.

It was a terrible thing, then, to see the last of young Kili's innocence depart from wide, dark eyes set in a suddenly, hauntingly pale face. He had not wanted to press the issue so soon, not when Kili had taken the deaths so hard, but with the lad's mind grasping at impossible miracles he hadn't had a choice. Balin knew better by now than to believe in miracles, and Erebor did not need a child-prince chasing a dream that could never be real, it needed a king. And so he spoke sooner than he ought, and silently apologized to his fallen friend for crushing the last vestiges of what Thorin had, in his own way, ardently protected for years.

"No," Kili said at last, his voice a wavering thing. "No, I can't be..."

"You are," Balin asserted, watching the weight of his words crush the lad more than grief already had. "Thorin's heir. Erebor's prince."

The look the young dwarf set upon him now was trapped and panicked, what color he had regained through recovery now lost in fear.

"I am not a King!" his protest was shrill, driven by terror, and Balin closed his eyes as he hardened his resolve, knowing that, painful though it may be, this needed to be done. "Please," Kili begged, breaking through his thoughts. "I cannot do it, Balin, please."

He opened his mouth even as his mind searched for the words that had always been his weapon to wield. Words of wisdom and comfort and restraint. He could find none this day, however, and Dwalin stepped forward before he could make another sound.

"It is late," the warmaster stated. "And we are all tired. This is a conversation that would be better left till morning light, I think."

The relief that shone forth on Kili's face was palpable, and Balin relented, more eager to abandon this fight than he probably should have been. But Kili was not the only one to be weary and grieving. Balin had lost both his king and his friend, as well as a young dwarf he had played his own part in raising. It was a blessing unlooked for to have Kili still, for some small remnant of the line he had served loyally for the entirety of his life to yet draw breath, and Balin hesitated to thrust this burden on those young shoulders. Dain was right in that Kili would not be the youngest to accept such a charge, but he feared that forcing the prince to do so now may very well be the final straw.

Above all else, he did not want to see Thorin's nephew broken.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

The overlook upon which he had stood and watched their enemy amass was further from the camp than Kili remembered, though he was wise enough to realize it was perhaps not the distance that had changed, but his own ability to traverse it. His legs were shaking by the time he dropped onto the hard packed soil that formed the lower slopes of Ravenhill, his shoulder pulsing with a dull throb despite the care he had taken not to aggravate it as he climbed. Oin had taken the first opportunity available to him to give Kili the sternest lecture he had ever heard from the old dwarf on not straining his tightly bound limb, his dire warning of 'you may never use it again' more than enough to make sure his words were heeded. Climbing one handed was difficult, however, and had made his ill-advised journey all that much harder. He had to take a few moments simply to regain his breath and let his head stop spinning once he reached the summit, and only then could he gaze upon the sight that had drawn him this far from the camp, the lure he had followed without thought for the difficulty in reaching his goal.

But he had needed to see the battlefield. The place where others claimed his family had died. It looked different now, of course, the corpses of the enemy piled high in smoking pyres that sent lazy swirls of smoke drifting into the still, afternoon air, whilst those of their own who had fallen had been carried away for a more fitting burial. But not his brother. Not Fili or Thorin, who Balin claimed to have seen overwhelmed by the enemy, but whom the old dwarf had not seen die. The burial rites to be held for both the uncrowned King and the similarly titled Prince of Erebor on the morrow were but a show, an act, for there was nothing to bury, no bodies to lay to rest, no proof that death had indeed taken them. Perhaps it was foolish to cling to hope when no one else saw reason for the same, but Kili would sooner be called a fool than the last of his house.

He knew the tales, after all. Stories of prisoners carried away during battle, dragged to deeps not dug by their kin, for sport, for revenge, for whatever fancy took their foul captors. Most were never heard of again, some displayed as trophies once their jailors had finished with them, others returned to their people years later, minds broken irrevocably, so that to end their lives was a kindness. It was not a fate he would have wished on his brother and uncle under any other circumstances, but, when the alternative was the permanence of death, he clung to the thin strand of hope that was that possibility.

Prisoners could be rescued.

The dead were beyond reach.

"I have a feeling you are not meant to be here." Kili flinched, gaze jerking away from the clasp in his hand to espy the speaker. The elven prince, standing a little way down the ridge, offered him a wry smile, stepping forward with the lightness of his race as he added, "But the healer will never know if I do not tell him."

"He'll find out," the answer came automatically to his lips, even if it sounded subdued to his own ears. "He always does."

Legolas Greenleaf made a soft sound of agreement, halting when he drew level to the seated prince, his gaze straying across the battlefield that had brought Kili to the heights in the first place. "This is not a sight to lighten heavy hearts," he observed thoughtfully. "Though, perhaps the sight makes little difference to the weight you bear. I am sorry that it did not end better for you."

Thorin would not have believed it, Kili thought with amusement that mingled too heavily with grief, but he was almost certain the elven prince was sincere in his words.

"It is not ended, yet," he replied dully, his eyes drifting back to the precious silver in his hands. "They wish to make me king."

And wasn't that an odd thought? Him, _king_? The very idea was ludicrous. Ludicrous and altogether daunting, so that it had lingered on his mind all through the night and most of the morning as well. He could not escape it, nor could he ignore the sudden weight of the realization that his royal blood made Thorin and Fili's deaths an event far more significant than the pain they caused him and all those who had known and loved the pair. _He_ was now the heir of Erebor, the last prince of Thror's line, and he could almost feel his new duties piling up around him like stone walls; cold, heavy, and immovable.

"I had heard as much," Legolas answered, interrupting his reverie. Kili cast him a curious glance, wondering how news of Erebor's hierarchy had traveled to the elven camp, and, seeing this, the elven prince added, "Dain Ironfoot has been delaying any settlement with my father until such a time as you were able to be a part of the treating."

"I do not know why." Kili frowned. "I am sure I do not know the first thing about settling such matters."

"Perhaps." Legolas shrugged. "But you have the King's respect, and that is more commodity than any other shall bring to the table. Or perhaps my father simply thinks you will be freer with what rewards you grant than the Lord of the Iron Hills."

Kili did not dignify that observation with a response, deliberately turning his mind away from thrones, crowns, and the burdens that came with both. His eyes drifted with his thoughts, his gaze passing across the cleared away carnage below, frowning as he spotted several elven riders approaching the camp at a canter, their destination clearly the lodgings of their king. Legolas saw them also, and spoke an answer before Kili could give voice to a question.

"News at last," the elven prince stated. "Though there are only three, so the deed cannot yet be done."

Kili frowned, as confused as he was curious. "What deed?"

"Bolg," the elf spoke the name with all the vitriol it deserved. "The coward fled the battle before he could meet such an end as his foul begetter. The King sent riders in pursuit, but they were over late in following, and it may be that the orc captain had too much of an advantage for them to catch him. No doubt he will skulk back into hiding, as is the way of his kind."

"Bolg survived?" Kili stilled, his grasp upon Fili's hair clasp so tight it was painful, his gaze seeking and holding the elf's own.

"Despite our best efforts to insure otherwise, yes."

The elven prince's tone was one of regret and deep dissatisfaction, but Kili's agile mind was already connecting dots, stringing faint hope to impossible fortune and praying for a miracle. Azog had not been named the Defiler without purpose, but if he had earned the name then his son had been worthy of a title just as horrific. When orcs called one of their own a torture-master you could be certain they were nothing less than that, and it had been Bolg's name carved upon the bodies of the prisoners returned in the wake of the battle at Moria's gates, a brutal vengeance for what many had believed was Azog's demise. That was a side of the story rarely told, a tale even Balin was reluctant to recall, and Kili had heard it only once as a lesson to be engraved upon his heart and never forgotten. But Azog's death had been real this time, his carcass lying with those burning below, and what better retribution for his son could there be then unleashing his foul talent upon the ones who had slain Azog in battle?

_Torture_. The thought made his hand tremble with fear as much as it did with hope, his stomach twisting itself into knots as he surged to his feet. He needed to find Balin now. He needed to tell him the truth. He needed…

The world spun, and he would have fallen had Legolas not seized a hold of his elbow.

"Easy," the elf chided, lowering him back to the ground as he gasped shallowly for breath. "You are not well enough to be moving so swiftly."

"I need to talk to Balin." Time was of the essence. If the elven riders had not caught up with Bolg and what remained of his followers then they were already too far behind for comfort. "I need…"

"Rest," Legolas interjected firmly. "That is clear to see. I think it is time you were returned to the healer's charge, Prince Kili."

"No!" The force of his rejection surprised even himself. "Not yet. Please. It's important."

The elf's expression was dubious, but to Kili's great relief he did not argue, graciously acting as a much-needed support as he aided Kili back down the ridge and through the camp to the quarters he had so shamelessly abandoned. He was not entirely surprised to find a small party of fairly worried dwarves waiting for him, and he did not miss the slight nod of thanks Balin offered the elven prince as the pair traded custody of their wayward charge. It wasn't worth taking offense at the action, however, not when he had such significant news to impart, but before he could even catch his breath Balin was speaking.

"Whatever were you thinking, lad?" he scolded, ushering Kili past the various members of the Company and back into the shelter he had vacated some hours before. "You've exhausted yourself. You'll be lucky if you're well enough to walk tomorrow, let alone attend the burial…"

He had almost forgotten the mockery of a funeral rite and the expectation that had been laid upon him to attend it, but that hardly mattered now.

"I'm not going," he blurted, and Balin came to a sudden standstill halfway between Kili's berth and the door, Dwalin's stare searing into his back from behind even as the elder brother's gaze searched his face. Determined, he did not flinch from Balin's stare, speaking again in the strongest tone he could muster, "They're not dead."

Balin's face fell, and Kili honestly could not read the emotion that lingered in his expression as he said, "Kili, lad, I know it is not easy to accept…"

"No." He snared his fingers in the old dwarf's sleeve, pressing his point for all he was worth. "No, just _listen_. Thorin and Fili slew Azog, you said they did, but Bolg is still alive. He attacked them. That was the last time you saw them, when he fell upon them, and he is alive. He could have taken them, Balin, he could have…"

But Balin was shaking his head, his words resigned and heavy. "I've already spoken to the elven scouts," he said. "They saw no sign of prisoners."

"That doesn't mean…"

"_Enough_, Kili."

The force in that single world silenced him, and he whirled to stare at Dwalin in shock, reminded for the first time that this loss was not his alone. Both Balin and Dwalin had known Thorin for longer than Kili had been alive, and they had had as much a part as Kili's uncle in raising Fili and himself. Though they did not show it as much as he they must surely be grieving too, but if that were so then he could not understand why they would not grasp onto hope as he had. It was a frail hope, to be certain, waxing and waning with every hour that passed, but that did not mean it did not exist at all.

"Why won't you believe me?" he said at last into the silence, letting his hurt color his words.

"Because there is nothing to believe," Balin murmured resignedly. "We say our farewells on the morrow, lad, do not make it any harder than it already is."

Kili faltered, his eyes darting back and forth between the pair, seeing none of what he wished to in their faces. They had already accepted what he would not, could not, and without substantial proof, proof he could not give them, they would not change their minds. He could feel his hope dwindling, slipping through his fingers, but he refused to surrender it entirely.

"I am not going," he repeated firmly, and meant it, despite the almost shocked look that swept across Balin's face. "I _will_ not."

"You are overwrought," Balin began, tugging him the rest of the way to the bed and pushing him down upon it. Kili allowed him to do so, but remained unmoving in his resolve. "You need sleep. It will…"

He knew what Balin meant to say, but forestalled the thought. "I will not change my mind."

"You are their closest living kin," Balin tried another tactic. "It would be dishonorable for you not to attend."

"It is even more dishonorable to give them up for dead," he fired back, angry now.

"We are not giving them up, lad," Balin objected.

"Yes, you are!" It was an accusation, and he was fairly certain those outside could hear it just as clearly as its intended recipients. "You will not even give them a chance!"

"There is no chance, Kili," the Company's eldest insisted forcefully. "I saw them fall."

He didn't care. They wouldn't listen, and his next words were a shout, "Fallen is not _dead_!"

"What on earth is going on in here?"

Gandalf's interruption was one of baffled incredulity, the wizard's tall frame darkening the entrance to the tent, Bilbo standing just slightly behind him, eyes wide. Silence reigned in the wake of his question, none answering him, though his eyes bore into each of them in turn. At length, when the quiet had lasted for too long, the wizard took a step forward.

"Perhaps it is time for a change of company, hm?" he suggested amicably in a way that told all three dwarves it wasn't really a suggestion. "I am sure you have a great many things that require your attention, Balin, Dwalin. Bilbo and I shall sit with Kili for a while. I am sure that, between us, we shall manage to keep him out of trouble."

Unlike Thorin, Balin knew better than to argue with a wizard, the old dwarf leaving without a word of complaint, and taking the slightly less willing Dwalin with him. Once they were gone Gandalf drew up a seat alongside the bed, pulling out his pipe and lighting it before letting his gaze fall upon Kili.

"Now then, young prince," he said with more cheer than Kili had heard since awakening. "What is it that puts you and Balin at such odds this fine evening?"

But Kili had learnt his lesson, and with shoulders bowed in sullen defeat he responded with a mumbled, "It's nothing."

"Clearly it is not," Gandalf answered him. "What with all the shouting that was going on, one would think the dragon had returned to restake his claim."

He cast only a fleeting glance the wizard's way, then returned his gaze to his lap. "You would not believe me either."

"Oh, come now, it is most unfair of you to judge an old wizard without even giving him a chance to make his own pronouncements," Gandalf rebuked him mildly. "You do not know what I might believe."

That was true, Kili reflected. Whilst telling Gandalf the same tale he had tried to share with Balin might earn him nothing more than the wizard's ridicule, it might also grant him a way by which to find and save his kin. It was a risk worth taking, and, drawing in a deep breath, Kili slowly and earnestly shared his thoughts with both the wizard and the hobbit. Neither uttered a sound during his stammered explanation, Bilbo's face scrunched into a thoughtful frown, whilst Gandalf's remained unreadable, the wizard puffing steadily on his pipe all the while. A restless quiet fell when the last of his uttered words had faded, and Kili shifted uneasily, awaiting the harsh verdict he felt sure was to come.

"Gandalf?" Bilbo prompted at last, his voice a tangle of conflicting emotions. "What do you think?"

As always, the wizard took his time in making his response, a half a dozen smoke rings filling the air before he removed the pipe from his mouth and spoke.

"Bolg was the jailor of Dol Guldur," he said gravely. "Given what we know now of the power that dwelt there, I can only imagine what terrible deeds he inflicted on those creatures unfortunate enough to fall under his care, or what dark practices he learnt beneath his master's hand." He paused, staring into the distance, and Kili waited, tense and braced for the worst. "It is not an impossibility, nothing is, but I do not know if it is a better alternative than what others have chosen to believe. If they were taken, they have been in Bolg's care for days, and his treatment will not have been kind."

It was not an entirely encouraging response. In fact, it was more disheartening than anything else, but still… "But they may have survived," he persisted.

"If they have then I fear your hardships are not yet at an end," Gandalf concluded with empathy. "The fight to bring them back will not be an easy one, and it may well be that the first battle you have to fight is here, against your own companions."


	10. Chapter 10

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 10**

Kili awoke that night with his brother's name on his lips and tears streaming down his face. The blanket covering him was a tangled mess, he was drenched with sweat, and his shoulder was pounding away to a rhythm of its very own. None of these things registered as more than a passing thought, however, his mind still wracked with the terrible images that had stalked his sleep with cruel persistence until his own screams woke him. He couldn't breathe properly, an invisible weight on his chest, so that the cries he could not bite back cut themselves short for want of air. He was reduced instead to a keening wail, to tears he could not stop as the loss hit him anew, and in the dark watches of the night his frail candle of misplaced faith could not stay alight.

"Kili?" Someone else had entered the tent, someone he could not see, for his face was firmly buried in his knees as he rocked back and forth, utterly distraught. "Kili!"

The voice became a demand, and then there were hands upon him, tugging and pulling until he was no longer hunched over himself, his face buried instead in a shoulder that smelt of worn leather and fur as a pair of strong arms held him firmly in place. He did not return the gesture, simply collapsing against the newcomer, his cries half-muffled by the cloth against which his face was pressed.

He did not know how long he lay there, gripped by hysterics, but eventually mind and body both ceased their grieving, and he was left lying limply against his stoic companion, throat aching, cheeks damp, and chest still heaving as he fought to regain his breath.

"You alright now, lad?"

It was Dwalin, he realized. Dwalin holding him together as he threatened to shatter, providing an anchor in the storm.

"I-I'm f-fine," he stammered out an answer, breath still hitching in his chest. "It was just..." He closed his eyes, clenched them shut, and wished the image conjured by his imagination would disintegrate. "It was just a dream. Just a dream."

A dream that had been no less terrifying for the fact it was a dream. Vivid and savage and _petrifying_. Full of battle and death and Azog's great mace crashing down upon him as Thorin looked on and shook his head. A dream where he ran with all the speed he could muster, but still could not cross the distance as Bolg's warg pack tore his family to shreds and his brother screamed his name as his arrows fell short of their mark. As the tale of death Balin believed turned to reality, and his life was destroyed with the complete decimation of two others. The very thought of what he had witnessed in his slumber was nausea inducing, and he shivered, jumping slightly when Dwalin's callused palm landed on his brow.

"You've taken to fever again," the bald dwarf rumbled in discontent, his next words not directed at Kili at all. "What in Durin's name is taking Oin so long?"

"Oin is right here," the healer responded sharply as he bustled into the tent, looking harried and tired and casting Dwalin a wholly disapproving glare that vanished as his eyes honed in on Kili.

"Now then," he grumbled, seizing the young dwarf's chin in his hand and turning his head hither and thither. "What have you done to yourself?"

He didn't give Kili a chance to respond, muttering to himself as he unwrapped bandages and poked and prodded at areas that were far too damaged to appreciate such treatment. Kili endured his ministrations in silence, still half-leaning on Dwalin, fighting the persistent tug of sleep that was threatening to haul him back down into the gruesome world of nightmares his slumber had become. At length Oin stepped back with a grunt of satisfaction, every dressing back in place, and every injury aching that much more for having been disturbed.

"There's no sign of infection," he spoke over Kili's head, addressing Dwalin. "It's simply a matter of too much, too fast. Rest is all he needs. _Proper_ rest," he added sternly, his eyes now fixed on Kili. "I'll mix up some tea before I go to help you sleep."

"No!" Kili jerked upright in a second, fear and panic clouding his voice, "I don't want to sleep. Please, Oin, I'll be fine. I _don't want to sleep_."

"You and almost everyone else in this whole camp but me," the old healer grumbled, removing a vial from his satchel. "But you needn't worry." Adding a few drops of the contents to a mug of warm tea, he turned and offered it to his ward. Kili didn't even bother raising his hand to take it, and with a frown Oin pressed it upon him. "This is an elvish brew," he assured the archer. "You won't dream."

Accepting the tea Kili eyed it distrustfully, his hand still shaky enough he could see ripples on the drink's surface. Seeing this Oin spoke again, "That's a tried and tested remedy, lad, have a little faith."

It wasn't assurance enough for the young dwarf, not after what he had seen, and he made to place the tea down without touching a drop only to have Dwalin's hand close around his own and push the mug back towards him.

"Drink, Kili," he ordered. "You need your rest. I'll be here."

But what good would even Dwalin be fighting against night terrors? This was no tangible enemy he could drive away, no monster of shadows that could be cut down by ax and sword. This was Kili's own mind, and the terrible array of possibilities that still remained possibilities until he could prove otherwise.

"Gandalf believes me," he blurted, earning the full attention of both Dwalin and Oin, though it was only to the former he turned. "Why won't you?"

Dwalin's face was a closed book, and Kili feared he had made the warmaster angry again until Dwalin reached across to take the tea from his hand and set it to one side.

"I have seen the damage false hope can do," he said at last. "I do not know what cause the wizard has for encouraging you, but I prefer not to entertain folly when I see it."

Using his good arm to push himself away from Dwalin Kili balanced himself against the pillows instead so he could look the older dwarf in the eye. "How do you know it is a false hope?"

Dwalin turned away from Kili's earnest gaze, his voice heavy as he answered with more words than he was apt to speak in a day, let alone a single conversation. "At Azanulbizar many prisoners were taken before the tide was turned, dragged within our own halls as slaves and sport. Frerin, Thorin's brother and your uncle, was counted amongst the missing. We held out hope for days that those who were taken would find a way to escape. Moria is a dwarf realm, after all. They knew those tunnels better than any Orc." The warrior paused, his gaze now fixed to Kili's own stare. "You know how that story ends, lad. The mutilated bodies that were returned to us, signed like some light forsaken craftsman's work. Frerin was recognizable only by the clasp they left upon his body, proof Azog's oath still stood, another of Durin's line dead at the hands of his ilk. Thorin... Well, Thorin had chosen to believe as you do. That there was still a hope, no matter how slim, that Frerin might be returned to us alive. I have never seen your uncle so close to breaking as he was in that moment when we found the bodies."

With a shake of his head, Dwalin ended his tale with the most devastating words he could have possibly chosen.

"There is no hope, lad, not even if they were taken alive. Better to think of them as dead upon the battlefield than dead at the hands of that dreadful beast."

Retrieving the mug of tea he seized Kili's hand and wrapped the archer's numb fingers about the handle, deliberately not looking the young dwarf in the eye.

"Drink," he ordered, and this time Kili did exactly as he was told.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Dwalin had meant his shared recollections to act as a lesson, Kili knew. A cautionary tale to show him the dangers wrought by believing in possibilities where no others saw even the slimmest chance. He knew what Dwalin had been trying to make sure he understood, but it didn't matter, because Kili did not believe Thorin and Fili were dead, and no one could make him believe otherwise. Dwalin was there the next morning, along with most of the rest of the company, coaxing, cajoling, and outright threatening, but Kili was a dwarf of his word, and he absolutely refused to have any part in the act of burying family he did not believe to be dead. If Dwalin turned away and Balin stared at him in stark disapproval whilst the rest of the company shook their heads in sorrow over his inability to accept the truth then so be it. It was not the first time he had earned the ire of them all. If he carried on as he was, it would probably not be the last.

He waited in the tent allotted to him for most of the morning, counting the minutes and trying to judge how long the funeral rites might take. The hour was nearing noon when he finally slipped from the shelter, picking a winding path through the camp until he came to the stream he and Bilbo had followed whilst carrying out their ultimately fruitless betrayal. The entrance to the mountain had been opened since then, rubble cleared away, and the path beneath his feet was blessedly smooth as he slipped through the unguarded entrance into the great hall below. He was almost caught there in the flood of returning mourners and those who could not care less but thought it wise to pay their respects regardless, but managed to duck into an alcove before any eyes fell upon him. He waited in the shadows until all had passed, then followed the paths they had walked deeper into the mountain. Balin had told him there was still an incredible amount of work left to do before Erebor was restored to a state capable of supporting those of its people who would be spending the winter inside the mountain, but the paths to the burial chambers showed no evidence of this, readied as they had been to receive their King and Prince.

The tombs were not difficult to find, set centerfold in the large room, each bearing their own inscription, a life reduced to a few sentences carved on cold stone. He hesitated in the entranceway, second-guessing his desire to be here, but at length his feet moved of their own accord, and he strode across the empty space, every footstep echoing in the darkness. He paused briefly alongside his brother's tomb, fingers tracing a name he had pronounced almost every day of his life, then tore himself away, taking the four steps that brought him to the side of his uncle's empty grave.

"Thorin."

The name felt heavy on his tongue, the echoes of his own voice an eerie whisper around him, and he paused uncertainly, trapped between the desire to speak and the knowledge there would be no answer. The words needed to be said, however, and if he could not say them here then he would never utter them aloud.

"Balin said you forgave me," he continued, staring not at the tomb before him, but rather into the darkness that lay beyond. "I almost wish you had not."

Had he still been disgraced, cut off from his house and banished from this home and all others he would have had no reason to stay. He could have seized that solitary strand of chance and pursued it to its death or his. But Thorin _had_ forgiven him, perhaps for no more reason than guilt over the fact Kili had tread perilously close to death defending his life, and now he was chained here, trapped by the same bonds he had been so horrified to lose.

"Nobody else will believe me." He hesitated, thinking that statement over. "Well, Gandalf does, but none of the others will believe _him_. Not unless he says for certain you are still alive, and he won't do that. Can't, I suppose."

It was cold down here in the deeps, and he shivered slightly, wishing he had been left a coat. Apparently his adventure the day before had lent wisdom to his wardens, however, and the layers of clothes he had been offered that morning were wholly conditional on his presence at the burial. As soon as they were assured he was not coming, anything that might have provided warmth in the encroaching winter air had been withdrawn.

"I don't know what to do." That much was obvious, he thought. He was asking for answers from the dead who were not dead, but the living had already refused him that much, so what choice did he have? "I just need proof. A sign. _Anything_…"

"You will not find any of those things down here, I fear."

Kili whirled at the interjection, wondering how he had missed the glow of torchlight behind him even as he met the stern gaze of the grey-bearded dwarf holding the flambeau aloft. Recognition took him a few moments, for this was a dwarf who had rarely graced Ered Luin with his presence, but it came at length.

"Lord Dain." He did not know what else to say, but it appeared the name and title were sufficient, for his distant cousin was already striding forward.

"If you wish to kill yourself there are easier ways than freezing to death," the Lord of the Iron Hills chided, shrugging his cloak from his shoulders and draping it around Kili's instead. "Come, leave the dead to their silence. This is not a place for the living to linger."

Reluctantly, Kili allowed himself to be tugged away, Dain leading him out of the burial chambers and back through the maze of corridors. Instead of making for the main gate, however, the Lord of the Iron Hills chose to mount one of the side staircases, bringing them both out to stand upon the very same wall where Thorin had first denounced his youngest nephew. The memory was still fresh in Kili's mind, overlaid now by the more terrible events that had followed, and he jumped slightly when Dain spoke, torn from his recollections.

"You have not helped your cause," his cousin said, and Kili wondered to which cause he was referring until the older dwarf continued. "There were doubters enough already without you giving them a firm reason to doubt. They will use this against you in council, as they well should. Such childish behavior is ill-befitting of an heir of Durin."

He frowned, instantly defensive, "I am not a child."

"Then stop acting like one," was the sharp response he received in turn. "There have been many loved ones laid to rest over the past few days, many families torn asunder, but none have resorted to such extreme and selfish tactics as you have employed. You are a King now, crowned or not, and you owe your people the level of maturity such a title asks of you. Thorin raised you better than this, I am sure, and yet you do him no credit by your actions."

It was a harsh rebuke, all the more so for Kili knew it was not wholly undeserved, and he struggled for a moment to come up with a fit response. What left his lips in the end was both a plea and denial, the same defense he had thrust at Balin when the old dwarf first told him what they now asked of him.

"I am not a King."

And that was no childish lie to escape his duty, but the truth, for he wasn't. Indeed, the blood that ran in his veins had never been more than an afterthought to him, a tie binding him to his brother and uncle, but not bearing the same importance it had for Thorin and Fili. They had both been destined to rule, as Kings in Erebor or in exile, but he… he was the second born, the prince, and the throne was not a responsibility he had ever had to consider. Until now. Until this moment where his old life died along with those who had carried him through it, stranding him in this new world of new expectations, with no reprieve granted in which to catch his breath.

"Not yet," Dain agreed mildly, in a tone that belied his former severity. "But the laws of our people dictate that you could be."

But he shouldn't have been. Should not be. This could not be real. This could not be the tale his life had become. He could not have lost almost the whole of his family only to be told it was now his duty to stand in their place, to wear the crown his uncle should have worn, to rule the people that would one day have been his brother's to rule. To turn his back on the chance of saving them because a responsibility that was not even his demanded he stay here and look to the people Thorin had dedicated his life to returning to their home. His uncle would not have wanted him to abandon that duty, he knew, and Kili found himself suddenly torn between what he knew Thorin would have asked of him and what his heart demanded be done.

"We are kin, you and I, and we have much in common." Dain folded his arms and leant back against the parapets, his voice softer again, kinder. "I was younger than you are now when Thror tried to retake Moria, and that battle, my first, is one I shall never truly forget. I lost my father to the massacre of Azanulbizar, to Azog, and found myself suddenly saddled with the responsibility of leading an army. Then, when victory was attained, governing a realm. It is no easy thing to rule a kingdom, and it was made all that much harder by my youth. You are now facing a challenge much the same, Kili."

"But I can't," he protested softly, mind racing, searching for a way out. A means of avoiding this burden he had never expected and most certainly never desired. "I am not what Erebor needs. I… I stole the Arkenstone. Thorin _banished_ me. I cannot rule."

Dain's gaze was calm and steady as he repelled Kili's argument with a simple statement of his own. "Words I am told he revoked on the battlefield, after you came to his aid, and saved his life."

Except that Kili had not saved his life, or else it would have been upon Thorin's shoulders that this duty fell, not his own. But there was still that chance… _Please, let there still be a chance…_

"Nobody believes that," he said, then realized he had spoken aloud.

"Believes what?" Dain asked mildly, but there was a light in his eyes that told Kili he knew more than his words suggested.

"That I saved Thorin's life," he answered truthfully, for if he was to be thought mad he may as well insure it was an universal belief, not just one held by his friends. "They will not believe that he could still be alive. That _Fili_ could be alive."

Dain's expression was unreadable, and Kili could not begin to guess what he was thinking. "It seems an unlikely chance, does it not?"

"We just reclaimed a mountain from a _dragon_," he found himself answering with more sharpness than he had intended. "That was a less than unlikely chance, and yet some still dared to risk it."

"A fair point," Dain conceded, inclining his head slightly. "But you stood upon that battlefield yourself, Kili. You almost lost your life to it. Can you honestly say it is more likely they are alive than dead, when most have already accepted their loss and buried them?"

"I do not care if it is more likely," he maintained stubbornly, setting his chin. "I do not believe it."

"Then why are you still here?"

It was not the question he had been expecting, and he turned to Dain in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Dain elaborated, "If you truly believe there is a chance that Thorin and Fili survived, why are you not already in pursuit?"

"Nobody will help me." He thought that much obvious, and he was hardly in a fit state to go careening across Middle Earth alone. "And I have duties here."

"Ah." Dain looked pleased. "Then you have not forgotten those entirely."

"Of course I have not forgotten them." He frowned, for _remembering_ those duties was a part of the problem.

"Though they may linger on your mind, it is not so clear to others that your thoughts are upon the responsibilities that have fallen to you," the Lord of the Iron Hills said. "Your actions have raised many questions of late. Enough so that the Seven have called for a Council to decide whether or not you are fit to wear the crown."

He had not expected to hear that, and turned to Dain in a mixture of confusion and alarm. "Can they do that?"

"I do not think we can afford to stop them," answered Dain. "Not with what ruin the last mad king wrought."

Kili's heart sank. "You think me mad?"

"I think you are too like Thorin for your own good," Dain sighed. "And stubbornness is a trait that may either serve you well or lead you entirely astray. The fact of the matter is, Kili, that time is against you. This is not easy, I know it is not, but you are of the line of Durin, and you have more lives to consider here than your own. Winter is drawing in, the citizens of Laketown are without their homes, and there are debts yet to be settled. Erebor has stood empty for over sixty years, it will need work to make it livable again, time to restore and repair what the dragon destroyed, and provisions will need to be made for food and other necessities until the mountain can once more provide for itself. That is just the beginnings of what must be done. Your people have a need of you, so you must put aside your grief for the time being and focus instead upon their needs. You already have the goodwill of Bard of Esgaroth, and, dare I say it, King Thranduil as well. Your influence over any bargain made with either will be far greater than mine."

"I cannot." He shook his head again, denying what was asked of him, raging against this fate. "I cannot do it."

"But you will," Dain predicted. "Because you must."

He gazed up at his cousin, begging, pleading for another answer. But, though Dain's gaze was not without sympathy, it was also immovable, set, as unyielding as the fate now thrust upon him.

"A king has many duties," the older dwarf observed, when Kili did not speak. "But he also has many powers. You may yet find that the answer to your quandary lies in that which you are trying to avoid." Sliding a hand into the pocket of his coat, the Lord of the Iron Hills removed a wrapped bundle that had been stowed there, pressing the familiar weight of it into Kili's hands as he said, "After all, no king rules alone, and _someone _must return west to escort the citizens of Erebor to their home."


	11. Chapter 11

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT I**

**-The Empty Throne-**

**Chapter 11**

Dale had once been called a great city of men, known far and wide for its wealth and the prosperity its people enjoyed, both aided along by the agreement of mutual benefit the city's lords shared with whomever bore the title of King Under the Mountain. Dale and Erebor had long stood side by side, and there was evidence of this to be seen in what was now called a ruin, where dwarvish stone stood sturdy still despite what damage the dragon had done all those years ago.

"Smaug targeted the markets and courtyards, the watchtowers and guard posts on the walls," Bard explained, as he guided Kili and Bilbo through the men, elves, and dwarves working shoulder to shoulder in the city's heart. Though the matter of the treasure's distribution had yet to be settled Dain had already sent what men he could spare to aid in Dale's restoration, an act that had doubtlessly gone a long way towards smoothing badly ruffled feathers. "Places where people were gathered, or where defense was attempted. Whole portions of the city lie in utter ruin, but there are others like this, fit but for the wear of time, and even that is minimal. With a little work it shall be habitable again, and there are enough ready hands to see that work done."

"What about food?" Bilbo asked as all three came to a halt on the highest point of the street they had just traversed, gazing back over the workmen at their various tasks. There was laughter down there among the toil, a sign of the indomitable spirit that existed here despite a concerted effort to snuff it out, and Kili found himself taking heart in that knowledge. If these men of Laketown, dispossessed of their home and bearing the loss of loved ones, could find reason to hold faith, then surely his own hope held more merit than his companions allowed it. "I haven't seen a single decent thing growing around the mountain. What will you eat?"

"There are a few small farms inland that Smaug's flames did not touch," Bard answered with the knowledge of a man who had already foreseen this particular hardship and had already looked to a solution. It was, Kili knew, what he should have been doing for his own people, the duties he had been ignoring and the negligence for which Dain had taken him to task. "And fish enough in the lake if one knows where to look. King Thranduil has already promised to meet whatever need for nourishment we cannot manage ourselves. It is the shelter that worries me more. A whole town lies displaced, and, even with so many willing hands, it will be difficult to house them all before the weather turns. The best we can hope for at present is to get the young, sick, and elderly in sturdier lodgings. The rest, I fear, will have to make do."

Kili absorbed the bowman's words in silence, his thoughts drifting to charred, floating logs drifting on frigid waters, all that was now left of Laketown.

"This is our fault," he whispered, and realized he had spoken aloud only when Bard glanced down at him.

"If the wizard speaks true our enemy meant to use the dragon as a weapon of war," the bowman replied. "I grieve the loss of Esgaroth, and the lives of those Smaug slew in his rage, but I believe we could have suffered worse. Had the Company of Thorin Oakenshield not come we would have had no warning. No chance to prepare before the dragon was upon us. I will not say that no mistakes were made, but I do not think blame for what happened can be assigned to any one cause."

"But, still." Kili shook his head. "Your people are without a home..."

Bard laughed slightly at that, his tone dry as he said, "It is funny, is it not, that all of a sudden they are _my_ people? It took but a dragon's fire to show Esgaroth what they should have known from the very start; The Master of the Lake is nothing more than a conniving coward."

"And yet you said there are still people following him," Bilbo commented.

"Aye, so I did," Bard answered, starting off down another street. "It was bound to happen. People react to disaster in a number of ways, Master Hobbit, but where most will rise from the ashes ready and determined to begin anew, there will always be those such as the Master and his ilk, willing only to lament their loss and thrust blame upon anyone but themselves. Fortunately they are not many, and I doubt the Master himself will bear his title for much longer. The people have had enough of his pretty words and false promises. He has, at long last, lost his charm. Esgaroth will have a new Master, and, if the people are wise, they will choose one who will see to rebuilding their town, rather than a man who sits upon a hoard that should be shared and waits for others to clean up his mess."

"I imagine he's regretting that now," Bilbo replied. "Letting you clean up his mess, I mean. He certainly wasn't all that happy to see his spoils being divvied out to others."

"Indeed not, Master Baggins," Bard agreed wholeheartedly. "But the people were most grateful for his generosity."

They had come to another rise now, this one taller than the last, and Kili felt his gaze drawn by the sight of Erebor's Gates, standing tall and proud despite the hole Smaug had made when he burst forth from the dwarf kingdom. He could not escape the mountain no matter what he did, it seemed, for it was always there, looming on the horizon, resting on his shoulders.

"And what of you, Prince Kili?" Bard's question drew his attention, and he tore his gaze away from Erebor to meet the man's steady regard. "You are having political troubles of your own, or so I have heard."

"It is nothing," he lied, shrugging away the thoughts that had been weighing like leaden weights on his mind all day. He had accepted Bard's offer through Bilbo to see Dale as a means of distracting himself, both from thoughts of the Council now set to be held on the morrow and the fact very few of the Company were willing to speak to him right now. Only Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur seemed unaffected by his decision not to be present at the funeral rites, and he had seen little enough of any of them since Balin first raised the issue of the crown that their continued support made very little difference. He was feeling decidedly short of allies at present, a fact that was doing nothing to contribute to his confidence in facing the morrow.

"It is never nothing," Bard countered. "But I will not pry. I fear we all have troubles enough of our own without getting involved in the political foibles of our separate peoples."

Turning away from the view of Erebor, the new Lord of Dale beckoned for his two companions to follow.

"Come now," he said. "I have more to show you. There is a garden in the north-eastern corner, and you will not believe what survived the dragon fire..."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

The Company as a whole moved into Erebor that afternoon on Dain's insistence, occupying rooms that had been too small for Smaug to leave his mark upon, but had still needed clearing of those inevitable signs of the years they had lain empty. They were not the only ones now living beneath the mountain, in fact the majority of Dain's able-bodied soldiers had found themselves a niche inside Erebor, with only the severely wounded left in the communal healing tents. Kili himself had been offered the King's quarters, but had turned them down, opting for a smaller set of chambers nearer to the other members of the Company. He did not mean to spend much time in them regardless, and escaped as soon as he was able, pacing Erebor's empty corridors in solitude until he found himself, much to his surprise, standing in the throne room, staring up at the great chair from which his grandfather had once ruled.

He heard Dain's approach this time, and turned as his cousin drew near, offering Dain the slightest of nods as the ruler of the Iron Hills came to a halt beside him.

"It will be a long time, I think, regardless of what happens tomorrow, before either of us finds the time to sit upon the throne," Dain said, eyeing the symbolic chair with a slight frown. "There is too much work to be done to allow for a King who sits upon his laurels."

"I'm not even sure what that means," Kili answered. "Thorin… Thorin was not a great believer in idle hands, royal or otherwise. We never wanted for a task to keep us busy."

_Was_. He had said _was_, subscribing to the belief all others had, and he immediately reprimanded himself for his error.

"That is as well," Dain answered, unaware of his inner thoughts. "For it will be a long time before you are anything _but_ busy should you take on this burden."

"Should _I_ take it on?" Kili queried. "I was under the impression it was not even my choice. Whatever the council decides…"

"Will depend entirely on you," Dain interjected before he could finish speaking. "This council is as much a test as it is anything else. What authority they have to deny or grant you the throne is limited, for it will not even be an official gathering. There was not time to assemble emissaries from all seven kingdoms, they are ambassadors only, spokesmen, here on behalf of their lords, and not all of them will necessarily look to the welfare of Erebor when they cast their vote."

Kili's scowl deepened as he tried to wrap his mind around that statement. "What does that mean?"

"It means that a fair number of dwarf lords have ambitions beyond governing their own realm." Dain was blunt, and spared him nothing. "They are not simply testing your ability to rule, Kili, they are testing your malleability, how easy a puppet you will be in their hands. Not all feel that way, of course, but some will, and they will find you a far more promising prospect than I when it comes to manipulation."

Or a more capable ruler, Kili thought, and wondered if his cousin upon the throne of Erebor would be such a very bad thing after all. Dain was not of Thror's line, it was true, but he was still descended of Durin's blood, and knew far more about ruling a kingdom than Kili did. The end result of the council seemed almost a foregone conclusion to the young dwarf, for who, in their right mind, would choose a child-prince as king when they had a seasoned lord? Well, according to Dain, those who wanted to rule via a figurehead, but Kili was an Heir of Durin, and if any dwarf was foolish enough to think _that _line would be easily controlled then they had not been paying attention for the last hundred years or so.

"It is still your choice," Dain observed neutrally, taking a step towards the throne, then placing his back to it as he turned to face Kili. "No matter what the rest of your Company believes. They cannot decide for you."

It might have been a comforting thought, had Kili known _how _to decide for himself. The crown would bring him a certain amount of authority, it was true, but with that authority came the responsibility of Erebor, a kingdom he would have to place before his family even if he only took the throne to save them. Thorin would accept nothing less of him, he knew, and even now the thought of disappointing his uncle was difficult to swallow. It was that fear that made him question, that made him wonder if he could afford to travel west in the pretense of riding to Ered Luin, potentially leaving Erebor leaderless should he not return? Or would it be better to not even attempt to grasp that power, to simply let the crown fall to Dain, and place his kin first, where he felt they were meant to be? But if he chose the latter he would have no support in his endeavor, no way of convincing others to join him, no power to _make_ them, and what were his chances of succeeding alone? None, he knew, or as good as, and if he _did_ succeed, what then? How was he to face Thorin – and he would, because his uncle was not _dead_ – and tell him that his kingdom was now another's?

Except Dain had given him a way around that last hurdle, knowing full well what it was he did, and Kili could not help but wonder why. There was, after all, a reason that the Lord of the Iron Hills had rarely visited his kin in the Blue Mountains, and Thorin's relationship with his cousin had always been more one of tolerance than actual kinship.

"Lord Dain, can I ask you a question?"

The ruler of the Iron Hills inclined his head in acknowledgement. "You may."

Kili hesitated a beat, wondering if it was indeed wise to voice his thoughts, then wondered why wisdom had suddenly become such a concern for him when it had never been before. "Why did you and Thorin quarrel?"

For a moment Dain seemed taken aback by the question, but it only took him a few moments to recover. "It happened outside Moria," he said, and Kili absently wondered if there was anything that had happened that was _not_ connected to that terrible battle. "Do you know of what happened to Frerin?" Kili nodded, and Dain continued, "When the orcs retreated Thorin was ready to pursue them right through the very gates of Moria, as far as need be to save those who had been taken. He had too few warriors to do so on his own, however, and so he asked me for aid."

"And you said no," Kili guessed, earning a somber nod from the Lord of the Iron Hills.

"It was a hopeless venture, more hopeless even than the attempt to capture Moria itself. I had lost too much already to risk more, but Thorin…" The older dwarf shrugged. "Well, you knew your uncle, Kili. He never fully forgave me, not with Frerin among the dead."

How many times had he heard those words, he wondered? How many times had he heard of betrayal, death, and a denial of aid with a refusal for forgiveness in its wake? Thorin didn't forgive _anyone_, and he found himself suddenly doubting Balin's tale of his own pardon. There had been no other witnesses to the act, no proof besides Balin's words, and he did not remember… But Balin would not lie, surely? Not even to ensure that one of Thror's line ruled in Erebor, as he seemed so set upon. Dain spoke of the other kingdoms wanting a King they could mold for their own purposes, but of late he was feeling like nothing more than an instrument the Company meant to use to complete Thorin's legacy. Someone to play the role of the exiled King coming into his own so that the story could have a happy ending, instead of some unknown face showing up at the tale's end to claim crown and reward both. He was certain they didn't mean it like that, but, with almost all his friends choosing to believe him a delusion child over risking the pain his one hope was an empty prospect, he could not quite banish the feeling that he was being used.

He was giving them what they wanted, but what was he receiving in return?

"It is growing late," Dain stated, breaking through his reverie. "And we both must be up with the sunrise."

"Because it is utterly impossible to hold vitally important councils at a decent hour," Kili grumbled without a thought for the dwarf in whose company he now stood, and startled slightly when his words earned him a loud laugh from his cousin.

"Spoken like a true Heir of Durin, dear cousin," he said, giving Kili a light slap on his good shoulder. "Bring that spirit to the council tomorrow and you will find thwarting them all an easy task indeed."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

As promised, Kili was roused in the hour before dawn by a meek and apologetic Ori. The youngest of the three brothers brought with him a formal uniform gifted from Dain, as well as a stern summons to the council with an added note from Balin to remind him this was not a duty he could ignore as he had others. After assuring Ori he would honor the request, Kili was left alone again to stare distastefully at the raiment Dain had provided. Changing at all was a hideously painful business with his shoulder so adverse to undue movement, and the thought of doing so now for such a purpose was less than appealing. Nevertheless, Kili knew his duty, and, no matter how much he might rail against it in his mind, he would not ignore it.

It took him a good deal longer to don the fine but surprisingly comfortable garments than he would have liked, and, though he managed to coax his right arm through the sleeve of both the shirt and tunic, the coat was out of the question, and he was forced to simply button the collar and let the right sleeve dangle. By that time the hour of the council was growing near, and he was left with the unenviable task of trying to braid his hair one handed and get his clasp attached before the whole thing came unraveled. Normally he would not have bothered at all, but he had been taught the importance of representing his house well, and knew appearing before the assembly in his usual, scraggly state would not do at all. However, after the fifth attempt at trying to tame his unhelpful mane, his patience deserted him, and he cast the heirloom to the floor in a fit of temper before proceeding to do the same with whatever objects lay in reach of his hand.

It was into the midst of this fiery explosion of temper that Bofur entered, avoiding with an ease that seemed born of practice the water basin Kili had hurled across the room a second before. The basin hit the frame of the door and clattered to the floor, still frustratingly intact, leaving Kili to stand with his chest heaving from his sudden exertion, facing his elected escort over the disaster zone that was now his room.

"By all rights I should be scolding you right now," Bofur began, a shameless grin on his face. "But bless me if it ain't good to see some life in you again, lad."

Kili drew in a shuddering breath, falling back against the stone wall and letting himself slide until he hit the floor. He had no words to give Bofur, just the burnt out remnants of his brief fit of fury, and an empty chasm where his heart ought to be.

"Now then," Bofur counseled, sliding an arm around Kili's shoulders as he took a seat beside the huddled archer. "This isn't any place for a prince to sit, is it? You've got appearances to keep up and all that… "

"I know." Bent almost double over his knees, his good arm resting on his leg as his hand ran frenetically through his tousled hair grasping at loose strands, Kili closed his eyes and tried to quiet his labored breathing, along with the anger that still waited inside of him for just the right moment to be released. He had minutes, mere _minutes _before he would be asked to make a decision, and he still did not know what that decision would be. What it _should _be. "I know, Bofur, I know. I just... I can't..."

"Deep breaths, laddie," the toymaker coaxed, tugging his hand away from his hair gently. Kili used it instead to cover his face, feeling the distinct tug against his scalp as Bofur worked a braid through his hair to fall down the back of his head, pinning it in place with the clasp he had retrieved from the floor. "There you go," he added, with an encouraging slap to Kili's sound shoulder. "That's all you needed, a wee bit of help."

It was a twofold message, Kili knew, and he answered it by allowing Bofur to haul him to his feet and smooth out the creases his loss of temper had caused. Once the older dwarf was satisfied he placed both hands on the younger's shoulders and stared him straight in the eyes.

"Now, you remember to hold your head high, laddie. You are an heir of Durin, Thorin's heir, and no one has got any right to tell you different."

_Except Thorin_. Kili's thoughts were brittle, and he wished desperately that he could recall the words Thorin had spoken over him when had fallen. Balin had assured him of Thorin's forgiveness, but Kili could not remember it no matter how hard he tried.

Moving to stand behind him, Bofur gave him a light shove, and Kili had no choice but to step forward and meet the storm outside.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Storm, it turned out, was no exaggeration, and no amount of lectures from Balin or encouraging words from Bofur could have prepared him for what he walked into that morning. Most of the Company would not meet his gaze as he took his place at the table between Bilbo and Gandalf, two people he had never been more grateful to see in his life. Their presence meant what remained of the Company as a whole were all paying witness to today's events, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Balin, Dwalin, Gloin, Oin, Ori, Dori, and even the disreputable Nori, and yet less than half of those so much as glanced his way. It was because of the burial, he knew, and his refusal to attend, and he wondered bleakly how long it would be before they accused him of inheriting the madness that had afflicted both sides of his family. Bilbo offered him a minuscule smile as he took his seat, and he couldn't decide whether he imagined the wink Gandalf threw his way or not.

Dain rose almost as soon as the doors to the chamber were closed, addressing all those gathered, though the representatives of the noble houses arrayed on either side of him no doubt already knew what their leader would say.

"'Tis both a sad and glorious day for all our kin," the Lord of the Iron Hills began. "For, whilst we have reclaimed our home at long last, it is a prize that did not come cheaply, and many lives were paid in its achieving. I am not alone, I think, when I say that no loss is more grievous than that of my cousin, Thorin Oakenshield, without whom none of us would be standing here. His death is a sore blow to all, all the more so because it leaves Erebor without the leader who should even now be standing at our helm, guiding us in the restoration of this once great kingdom. It is to that purpose we now gather, at the bequest of those representatives of the seven houses who are present here with us today, to select one to take his place and bear the heavy burden of healing what damage the dragon and battle has wrought. I myself hold claim to that post as Thorin's cousin, and as a leader already among our people, but Prince Kili, sister-son to our fallen king and member of his Company, also has a right to that same throne. Which one of us is to ascend to that post is the decision that now lies before you, a choice neither he nor I may gainsay or argue once it is made. As companions who have served alongside Prince Kili, the members of the Company shall argue on his behalf. For myself I call upon members of my court who have stood alongside me for the duration of my governance, and know me better than any others. The final decision shall be cast by vote once all arguments have been heard. The Company shall begin."

Balin rose as Dain retook his seat, the spokesman among them and the one least likely to incite a riot.

"I would ask what right Dain Ironfoot has to claim a throne he would not risk even one man for," the oldest dwarf began calmly. "When Thorin sought aid on this quest Dain refused to answer, and did not come to Erebor until assured the dragon was dead and the treasure in dwarf hands once more."

"There is truth in your words," one of Dain's followers immediately broke his silence. "But let us not forget that the dwarves of the Iron Hills had paid blood toll already to Thror's line. Dain's own father perished in Thror's ill-conceived attempt to reclaim Moria, and many others were slaughtered at Azanulbizar. For our sacrifice there alone some reward is deserved."

"Some, yes, but not a throne," Balin agreed mildly. "It is Thror, not Thorin, who led your people to their doom, and his was a debt owed to all who followed him, not simply the dwarves of the Iron Hills."

Another of Dain's supporters gave argument, and so the morning marched on in sharp debate with words bandied with as much skill and lethality as any sword. Kili gave up trying to follow the twisted paths of the verbal conflict long before it was concluded, wishing earnestly that there was a way to cradle his throbbing head without being utterly transparent. He had been taught better than to show such weakness, however, so he sat still, upright but seemingly relaxed, and let the conversation ebb and flow around him. It was only when a sudden silence fell that he realized he had been addressed directly, and lifting his head slowly he met the dark gaze of the speaker as calmly as he could manage.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said," the dwarf replied with deliberate pronunciation. "How can the people of Erebor trust a king who hands their greatest treasure to the enemy when under siege? Perhaps you would like to enlighten us, Prince Kili, as to why, exactly, the Arkenstone was in King Bard's possession?"

Kili stared back mutely, wholly taken aback by the accusation, and acutely aware of the ringing silence on his side of the table. His theft of the Arkenstone was not yet an act any of his comrades fully understood, much less condoned, and he realized with cold clarity that he was entirely alone in this.

"I did not hand Erebor's greatest treasure to the enemy," he denied at last, ignoring the incredulous looks that came from both sides of the table. "For its greatest treasure lies yet in Ered Luin, and elsewhere in Middle Earth, in the form of its people. The Arkenstone was little more than a pretty stone, and certainly not worth the lives that would have been spent on its behalf. I do not regret taking it, and I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant ensuring my people's safety."

There were mutters from all around the table at that statement, and then a dwarf on Dain's side of the table raised his voice above the rest.

"I ask again," he said sharply. "What sort of a king hands such an important relic to the enemy, and then names it naught but a pretty stone! The Arkenstone is one of the prides of our people, that upon which oaths of loyalty were sworn to the king among us, and if Prince Kili cannot see its value how is he to rule a nation built on such beauty?"

"You ask what kind of king he would make?" Unexpectedly, Gandalf spoke up. "A much wiser one than you, Master Dwarf, with wisdom and sight enough not to fall victim to the gold lust that even now threatens the wellbeing of this nation. You came late, when the dragon's curse was already abated, but do not think you are immune. Out of all those here present, I would name young Kili alone as the only one not still at risk of the sickness."

"_That_ sickness, perhaps," the dwarf on Dain's right retorted. "But his bloodlines already predispose him to an illness of another kind, and I see signs of its manifestation already."

"_Valin_," Dain spoke in what Kili guessed to be warning tones, but went ignored.

"Tell me, Prince Kili, why did you not attend the burial of your kin, as custom and familial tradition dictate you should?"

"I refuse to bury those who are not dead," Kili answered, knowing and dreading what was to come next.

"That said, would any care to enlighten me," Valin addressed the table as a whole. "As to how Erebor would benefit from a mad king?"

The chaos that erupted in the wake of that question was somewhat inevitable, and Kili shrank back from the table as the debate suddenly became more heated than an ale fueled tavern brawl. Whilst Kili and Dain remained relatively calm and settled – at least, on the outside – their respective followers and advisors seemed about ready to maul one another. Nestled between a tranquil Gandalf and a decidedly rattled Bilbo as he was, Kili was spared any undue jostling, but the clamor of noise was excruciating, turning the mild ache in his head to a fully-fledged assault. Gritting his teeth he forced himself to bear it for as long as he was able, still hoping Dain would intervene, but Thorin's cousin continued to sit quietly, unperturbed, and at last Kili could stand it no more.

"_Enough_!"

When he had risen to his feet he did not know, but his voice easily drowned out the racket and turned all eyes to him.

"This 'debate', if one can even call such goings on by so civilized a title, has gone on long enough!" Ire fueled his words, and he was scarcely aware of the many pairs of eyes outright staring at him as he took them all to task despite the fact all but Ori held a fair number of years on him in age. "Erebor needs a king, and she needs one now. One who will rebuild steady relationships with her neighbors and lead her forward to a peace that respects her glory of old. One who would see it restored so that her people might finally come home. This mountain has seen enough division in its halls, and more will only weaken her further. In light of that truth, therefore." Here, Kili found Dain's gaze and held it. He had made his choice, and there was no going back. This he knew and accepted, and inwardly prayed that Thorin would one day forgive him. "I withdraw any and all claims to the throne of Erebor, hereby willingly abdicating as its rightful king and heir and allowing its inheritance to fall upon Dain Ironfoot, he who stands next in line." He let his gaze travel then, round the shocked to silence table. "That should end this debate for good, I believe."

With that curt farewell he shoved his chair aside and stormed from the room, hearing as the doors closed behind him that arguments had broken out once again. He heard Dwalin's voice – dear, ever-loyal Dwalin – booming in his defense even as he hastened away.

"The Prince is still grieving, you can't take what he says..."

The rest was lost to him as he turned away from the main corridor, using his knowledge of the mountain's interior, gleaned from too many lonely nights wanderings its depths in search of sleep, to evade any pursuit as he carved a vague and circuitous route back to the rooms that had been allotted to him. His bags were already packed, his decision on this matter having already been made regardless of which way the council fell, and he wasted no time in tossing them across his shoulder along with his weapons. He was met with no resistance on his way out, not even a guard at the gates, and it was not until he began to leave the mountain's shadow that he espied a set of familiar faces.

Legolas sat before him astride an unmistakably elven steed, and beside him, mounted on a similar creature, sat Gandalf and Bilbo, Beorn's intimidating height flanking them both.

"My dear boy," Gandalf said, in response to Kili's utterly bewildered look. "You did not really think we were simply going to let you run off into the blue all on your own, did you?"

Approaching them both, Kili tossed a fleeting glance Bilbo's way, earning a small smile and a shrug from the halfling, before turning back to Gandalf.

"You really do believe me, then?"

"What I believe would not seem to matter," the wizard replied enigmatically. "You are set on this no matter what anyone says, and just as stubborn as your uncle in seeing it through. However, if, unlike Thorin, you have it in you to swallow the taste of elven company, you will have a mighty fine guide as far as the western borders of Mirkwood, and no better way to hide your tracks from those who will follow."

Kili threw Gandalf a puzzled look, but it was Bilbo who explained.

"We might," the hobbit began. "Have promised to faithfully watch you and insure you did not do anything rash until Balin or one of the others was free to knock some sense into you. I daresay there will be a mighty row as soon as they realize we have vanished."

Kili could not help himself. He laughed, hope filling him for the first time since he had awoken, and relief following close on its heels at the thought some of his friends were not wholly against him in this ill-advised endeavor.

"In that case, Master Baggins," he said with a broad grin, "Let us be off, before the wrath of Dwalin comes raining down upon our heads."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: So, I have a feeling this is not going to be the awesome, epic adventure some of you were expecting. This is largely due to me and my utter inability to write adventure as opposed to sheer, emotional torment. Hope that's not too disappointing for all of you.**

**Just a few notes for those who actually bother to read these things.**

**1. I have done my best to make travel times as accurate as possible, but there aren't that many sources and maps are sketchy things at best. Hopefully the times I have put down are not too unbelievable, and if they are, well, I tried.**

**2. The extended Tolkien universe is freakin huge, and when I was writing this story I incorporated elements of the game War In the North just because they conveniently suited my purpose. You will start to see some of those elements now, but they are basically just convenient plot devices, so they shouldn't distract from the main characters/quest all that much.**

**3. Syblime asked if Tauriel would appear. I must confess to not having been a fan of the way her character was handled in the movie, but I _did_ like the character herself, so I've given her a form of cameo in here despite the fact she didn't play a role in the original story and everything that happened in Desolation of Smaug is pretty much a non-event in this.**

**Sorry for the extended addition author's note.**

**Read, review, and enjoy!**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 12**

Fear.

It dogged his every footstep, nipping at his heels and driving him onwards. Ever onwards. It lent him speed even as it slowed him down, gnawing at the back of his mind with the knowledge he was too late.

_Too late. Too late. Always too late_.

He scrambled, stumbling, hands groping in the dark, straining for something that lay just beyond his reach. His fingers caught on fur, tugged and pulled, and for a second, just a brief second, he saw a familiar face. Blond hair and blue eyes that met his own in stark relief. And then there were teeth, harsh growls and a mighty roar as the hand he held was ripped from his grasp. He leapt forward, desperate, but his fingers closed around empty air.

"Fili!"

Kili bolted upright, then backpedaled as quickly as he could go as he suddenly found himself staring into the truly fearsome visage of a great, black bear. He could only go so far before his back hit the tree behind him, and then he simply stayed, pressed against the aged bark and gaping at the great beast whose size was not at all disguised by the shadows. Beorn stood impassively, watching him through dark eyes, then with a rumbling grunt he turned and rambled away into the forest once more. Kili remained where he was, trying to convince his pounding heart to slow down, only to have it take off again when a light laugh from above startled him. Swinging his head up he glared at the elf dropping from the branches above him, a gesture which did not deter Legolas in the slightest.

"It is not a sight I would wish to wake to, either," the elf prince confessed, coming to stand beside the dwarf. "But I do not believe he meant to eat you in your sleep, if that is any comfort."

It was. Not that Kili thought Beorn would have waited until he was sleeping had he really wanted to harm him. He had heard tales of how the skinchanger had thrown mounted orcs _and_ their wargs through the air as though they weighed nothing during the battle. One small dwarf would hardly be a challenge at all.

Pushing that slightly disturbing thought from his mind Kili used the tree to lever himself to his feet, pacing across to the smoldering remains of their campfire and stirring it back to life. There were no eyes peering at them from the forest this time, whatever they had belonged to gone from the night, and the fire provided a welcome ward against the chill of winter. Bilbo had taken full advantage of that, and would have been on fire himself were he any closer to the small blaze, whilst Gandalf had taken up his usual post a little way off, leaning against a tree with his hat and staff beside him. Both seemed to be sleeping, though Kili knew enough of the habits of his traveling companions to know either or both could be pretending. He ignored them for the time being, his gaze drifting beyond the circle of safe light cast by the blaze into the shrouded shadows beneath the trees. Beorn was out there somewhere, pacing in circles about their camp, but Mirkwood still made him uneasy.

"You watch the forest as though you expect it to eat you." Legolas had not moved, and so Kili turned to face the elf as he answered.

"It made a fair effort last time I was here."

"The spiders are no more," the elven prince asserted firmly. "We drove them off, and with Dol Guldur now fallen they shall not return."

"There is still a presence of evil here." Bilbo had spoken of it when they passed through the elven gate, and they had all felt it, pressing in upon them from all sides with nothing but malice. That same feeling was still present now, if greatly faded, and it set Kili's nerves even more on edge than they already were.

"The taint will take time to fade." There was a hint of sadness to Legolas' words, and Kili was reminded that these woods he would so gladly be rid of were in fact the home of his unlikely guide. "We allowed it to sink too deep before we were rid of it, and our inaction has cost us much." Silence fell for a moment, then the elf seemed to shake himself out of his melancholy. "But the Greenwood shall recover." Turning away from the forest he met Kili's stare directly. "And what of you, Master Dwarf? How are you faring?"

It was a good question, Kili conceded, though he was not yet certain of the answer. Nine days had elapsed since the battle when his unlikely band of rescuers departed from Erebor. Nine days in which Bolg had garnered a lead those pursuing him would be hard pressed to diminish. Nine days in which those who may yet have lived could have met their end. It seemed an eternity of time lost, but nine days was not, when one considered it, so very long at all for a grievous injury to heal, and Kili's shoulder was troubling him a great deal more than he would have liked.

"I will manage," was all he said aloud, because he _had_ to. He had come too far already to be turned back by weakness.

Legolas simply nodded, thankfully making no mention of the fact the only reason they had chosen to halt for the night was because Kili had 'managed' to fall from the back of a horse Legolas had claimed would never drop its rider. He was inclined to blame that on the supposition the elvish horse was no fonder of dwarves than its master, but seeing as Legolas had saved him from introducing his face to the ground in a most painful manner that argument could not really stand. Truth be told he remembered little of the day's journey, and could not yet decide whether he should be grateful for that absence of knowledge or not.

"What do you plan to do once you leave the forest?" Legolas broke the silence again, leaning against the tree he had been residing in minutes before and watching him with keen eyes.

He probably should have been flattered that the elf thought he had a plan at all, but Legolas' question was little more than a disheartening reminder that he had no idea how he was actually to go about this task. Bolg was making for Gundabad, of that the scouts who had pursued him had been certain. Dol Guldur was now closed to him, and Moria was too great a distance to risk with the Woods of Lorien still on high alert. That left Gundabad, the first home the orcs had stolen from Durin's Folk, and a rumored fortress they would have no trouble holding even with their grossly lessened numbers. If Bolg had taken prisoners, that is where he would keep them, and so it was where Kili must follow. But the chase was not the hardest part of this venture. What they encountered when they arrived would prove to be the true challenge, Kili knew, and as yet he had no idea how he was going to overcome that particular hurdle.

Shrugging, he answered honestly, "I suppose I will figure it out once I get there."

Legolas blinked a moment, his reply impassive. "That is easily the worst conceived plan I have ever heard."

He knew that. He did not need to be _told_.

"Yes, well, if you have not heard I took leave of my senses some days ago. Madmen are not known for their strategic brilliance."

"No, they are not," the elf agreed simply. "But neither are they known for attracting the aid of a wizard and a skinchanger."

"Or an elf," Kili muttered, half to himself, before voicing the question that had been preying on his mind since they left Erebor. "Why _are_ you here, Legolas? What possible reason could an elf of King Thranduil's court, his _son_, no less, have for wanting to help me? It is no secret that our families abhor one another. My side, at least, is quite open about it, and I'm sure the elves are no different. There is no _reason_ for you to help me."

"Clearly there is, or I would not be here, would I?" Legolas replied, the smirk on his lips telling the dwarf archer he knew full well how infuriating that response was.

"Or perhaps you are not helping at all?" he suggested. "Maybe you are simply finding the most convenient place in this accursed forest to strand us forever."

"I very much doubt whether Mithrandir and Beorn would appreciate being stranded," Legolas observed. "And your burglar can be quite a fearsome creature when enraged."

"Bilbo?" That made him pause for thought.

"The Halfling that took on a dragon," the elf prince reminded him. "It is not a feat that will soon be forgotten. It will be a long time, I think, ere anyone looks upon your small friend and judges him on his size alone."

That was all true, but… "Stop changing the subject. I deserve an honest answer."

"Consider it a favor returned," Legolas answered him without hesitation. "Even if you did not act with our welfare in mind, your actions in handing over the Arkenstone were a noble and selfless effort to prevent bloodshed. Few would have done the same in your position, and your actions deserve some form of reward."

Was that… _respect_ he could hear in the Prince of Greenwood's voice? He hesitated to name it as such, for he very rarely garnered respect from anyone, much less an elf. But it was there in Legolas' gaze as well, the same steady regard, and he wavered between deciding he had heard what he thought he heard and wondering if the elven prince was mocking him somehow without his knowledge.

"It did not do any good in the end, though, did it?" he said at last, voicing the very reason that respect should not even _exist_. His actions had been worthless in the end. Worse, still, they could very well be the reason his family was missing. If only he had not agreed to Bilbo's plan. He would have _been_ there. He would have been at Thorin's side. At Fili's side. Everything could have been so very different had he not committed treason that served no good purpose in the end. "There was still a war."

"The worth of the outcome does not detract from the value of the deed itself," came the elf's musing response. "And, if nothing else, your actions that day won you many friends."

Upon which he could have founded a kingdom, had he decided to become king. But he hadn't, and his family was the price he had paid for those friendships.

"How much of a chance do you think there is, really?" He hadn't dared to ask that question of any who had shown even the slightest shred of faith in his belief. But he was committed to this task now, and so, it seemed, were the rest of his unlikely companions. They would not turn back from what they had begun, so he felt safe in asking what could easily have been a precursor to a refusal to help.

"That your kinsmen were taken captive?" Legolas paused, turning his head aside as he stared into the darkness of the woods around them. "I believe it is just as likely Bolg carried them off the battlefield as it is that they died there."

"But?" There was more, he could sense it, even if the elvish prince didn't seem willing to speak it.

"But, in my mind, whether or not they were taken is not what is in question here, nor is it what should most concern you." Turning back to the dwarf, Legolas met his gaze through the shadows, his fair voice carrying words weighted with dread. "What you must consider is whether or not they will still be alive when you find them."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Mirkwood was not a place Bilbo had ever thought he would willingly set foot in again. The forest carried no pleasant memories for the stalwart hobbit, and he would have much preferred to go around that which had once been called Greenwood the Great than through it. With their quarry already so many days ahead of them, however, the shorter route had been a necessary evil, and if Legolas' presence was an assurance against losing their way then Beorn could have been a shield for how effectively he kept what evil things still lurked beneath the trees at bay.

They traveled at speed, and with a surer sense of direction than they had on the first trip through the forest. There was still a feel of heaviness to the air, a lingering touch of dark magic, but it had abated since Bilbo was last beneath the old trees of the forest, and did not carry the overbearing weight it once had. Nevertheless, he was thankful for their swift movement, if not for the perpetual ache riding for so long awoke in his legs, and by their third night in the forest he had almost grown comfortable enough to sleep through the night without startling awake every half hour with the phantom touch of spider webs on his skin.

Which was ironic, really, because that was the same night Beorn abandoned them, traveling on ahead with a promise to meet them at the forest' edge. Legolas had taken over the ceaseless watch the skinchanger kept, but Bilbo was forced to admit that an elf standing guard was nowhere near as reassuring as a giant bear, which perhaps explained why he was sitting upright with absolutely no intention of falling to sleep despite the late hour. He was not alone in this, either, he noted, for Kili was propped against a log just outside the circle of firelight, toying with the fletching on his full quiver of arrows. How he meant to use his bow when his dominant arm was still tightly strapped across his chest Bilbo did not know, but he supposed the sheer familiarity of the weapon might offer some form of comfort.

"You are staring, Master Baggins." Caught, Bilbo jumped, an apology on his lips even as Kili lifted his head to offer the hobbit a weary grin. "I assure you I am not at all fascinating."

"Infuriating perhaps, but not fascinating," Bilbo agreed heartedly, rising and moving to sit beside the young dwarf. "And as eager as me to be rid of this wretched forest, I'd wager."

"You are simply upset that there has been no chance for heroics this time," Kili teased him. "No spiders. No elves. And no _barrels_."

"As if I would want to encounter any of those again," Bilbo shuddered. "Though, the elves did have quite an appetizing banquet, now that I think of it…"

Kili laughed softly in response, and Bilbo was cheered by the sound. The young dwarf had been reminding him too much of Thorin lately, with his grim face and sober words, and it seemed to the hobbit that their small company was feeling sorely the absence of Bofur. They had not thought to ask any of the more amenable members of the Company if they wanted to come along, acting in secrecy as they had, but after the all but constant silence of the past three days Bilbo was beginning to wish they had.

"We never thanked you properly, did we?" Kili said quietly, setting his quiver aside to focus all his attention on the Halfling instead. "For all your help."

"I signed a contract," Bilbo reminded him lightly.

"Which did not include saving the lives of stubborn dwarves time and time again, and then going out of your way to try and knock some sense into them when theirs was nowhere to be found. If you had merely stuck to the contract, Master Baggins, we would still have been sitting in the elven king's dungeon, if we had made it that far at all."

That was all true, he supposed, but then Bilbo could not really imagine having chosen otherwise than he had, contract or not. He had made many friends on this journey, and he had kept going out of loyalty to them more than anything else. If that loyalty had not been returned at the end of the journey, well, that was hardly Kili's fault. If memory served correctly the young prince had been one of a very few to actually believe he was even fit for an adventure, his jovial 'he's just _fine_' that evening in Bag End the closest thing to a ringing endorsement Bilbo had received from any of the assembled Company.

"All things I will be sure to remind Thorin of once we have rescued him," he said aloud, earning himself an unreadable glance from Kili as some of the good humor faded from the archer's eyes. Concerned, he immediately asked, "What is it?"

"He would have to be alive for you to tell him that, Bilbo," was the soft-spoken response, and Bilbo straightened instantly.

"But isn't that why we are here?" he demanded. "To rescue them? Kili, do not tell me you are giving up now!"

"I'm not giving up," Kili insisted at once. "I'm not. I'd follow Bolg to the ends of Middle Earth if I had to. It's just…"

"Just?" the hobbit prompted, eyes never leaving his companion's shadowed face.

"Dwalin told me a story the day before the burial," Kili continued slowly. "About my Uncle Frerin, and what the orcs did to him before returning his body to his family, and I just… What if we _do_ find them, Bilbo? What if we arrive too late, and they're…"

"What if we don't arrive at all and they're not?" the hobbit countered. "Bolg's been on the run since the battle. I doubt he's had a chance to do much of anything yet if he does have them, so we just have to be quick."

"You make it sound so simple, Master Baggins," Kil said quietly, and Bilbo shrugged.

"It is," he insisted. "We're going to find them, Kili, and they're going to be fine."

The young dwarf cast him a doubtful glance. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because it's Thorin," Bilbo answered. "And he's too stubborn to let them be anything else."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

They made it to the eaves of Mirkwood shortly after midday on the fourth day, and were greeted at the wood's borders by Beorn, a crowd of the huge man's ponies, and the company of scouts that had pursued Bolg from Erebor's doorstep through the long miles traveled since. Legolas immediately nudged his horse forward to hear what the captain of the scouts had to say even as Gandalf and Bilbo reunited with their skinchanging companion, and Kili, mounted behind him, had little choice but to go along.

"What news, Tauriel?" Legolas asked, and the fiery-haired elf maiden at the company's head was quick to reply.

"They have gone to ground beneath Gundabad, my lord, as expected," she reported, a strong sense of satisfaction audible in her next words. "But we were able to lessen their numbers on the final stretch. One of them was carrying this."

She tossed a sheathed blade across the space between them, Legolas easily snaring it from the air, and Kili gasped as soon as he set eyes upon the weapon.

"That is Thorin's!" he exclaimed, recognizing the blade that had saved his life, and Legolas cast him a quick glance before turning back to Tauriel.

"Your message said there was no sign of prisoners."

"And we have not seen any till now," Tauriel answered him readily. "If they are carrying captives with them they have gone through great pains to conceal them. That blade may be nothing more than a trophy."

"Or a sign of hope." Legolas studied the blade from Erebor's hoard for a moment, then passed it back to Kili. The young dwarf grasped it tightly in his good hand, the first true sign he had had that his hope was not completely unfounded. He drew strength from the cool steel, hardening his resolve once more. "Tauriel, how fresh are you men?"

"Able to ride many more leagues if you require us to, my lord," the captain assured him at once, straightening in her saddle.

"You are, perhaps," Legolas said, sounding amused. "But what of them?"

He nodded towards the other three mounted elves, and Tauriel turned to speak to them in their own tongue. Kili was left momentarily lost as the conversation continued on around him, but whatever decision was made seemed to satisfy Legolas, for he threw his leg across his horse's neck and slid to the ground, beckoning Kili to follow him.

"Their horses need rest," he explained, as they walked back to join the rest of their waiting company. "A couple of hours, no more, then Tauriel's company shall take you on to Gundabad."

"You are not coming with us?" Kili faltered, surprised by how much that thought troubled him. They had not exchanged a great many words over the past four days, but those they had had meant something. Absently, he thought Thorin would have been horrified to see either one of his nephew's close to befriending an elf, but the thought was sharp and painful, and he shoved it quickly aside.

"Alas, I cannot." Legolas shook his head regretfully. "I have orders from my father to take word to Rivendell of what happened on the slopes of Erebor. Something much larger was afoot than simple battle over the mountain, and all the Wise need to know the events that befell there."

It did not take him more than few seconds to guess what that might mean. "Then Thranduil does not know you helped me?"

"My father has respect for you, Prince Kili," Legolas replied. "But he would not have given his permission for me to accompany you on what seems such a hopeless venture. We were traveling the same way, that is all, and it shall be the same with Tauriel's company. They will take you to Gundabad, but they can go no further than that." He paused, briefly, and then offered an apology, "I am sorry. I would do more, if it was within my power."

"You have done more than enough." It was a painful truth, but the elven prince had done more for him than most of his own kin, and Kili might have said more had Bilbo not haled him.

"Kili, come over here! Beorn has brought us some of his honey and bread, so you had best come and get a decent meal whilst it is on offer." His eyes widened as they drew nearer, and he saw what it was Kili held in his hand. "Is that…?"

"Thorin's." He extended his hand to let the hobbit take the masterfully crafted blade, his gaze flicking to Gandalf's impassive features as he said, "The first good sign we have had."

"A sign I fear must bring us to that which we have been avoiding thus far," the wizard interceded. "A means of entering the mountain. This is not Erebor, my friends, and I do not possess either a map or key to allow us entrance to those ancient deeps."

"We will find a way in," Kili insisted firmly, buoyed by the slimmest of proofs that had been offered. If a hope founded on nothing had brought him this far then that invoked by the sight of his uncle's blade could surely carry him twice the distance. "Even if we have to march through the front door."

"And there is that accursed Durin recklessness," Gandalf scolded him at once. "Do not think I have come all this way simply to watch you get yourself killed, my foolish young friend. No, we are going to go about this carefully, and wisely, and a great deal less thoughtlessly than the dragon was handled."

"Agreed," Bilbo said at once, with understandable haste, and Kili ducked his head, suitably chastened.

"The front door would not be a wise choice at all," Beorn said, in his slow, weighted speech. "But there are other ways beneath Gundabad, if you know whom to ask. Some of your kin dwell yet in the Grey Mountains. It may be they can offer your aid."

"There are dwarves in Ered Mithrin?" Kili asked, lifting his head in surprise.

"A small colony," Beorn rumbled in confirmation. "If your king was taken to Gundabad, they are nearer than any others. They dwell in Nordinbad, by the lake of Azan-zâram, but they are a strange lot for dwarves. They covet their secrecy as others covet gold, and have little to do with the outside world. I do not know if they will help you, but if any know of secret paths beneath that orc-infested peak it will be they."

"Then we must speak with them," Kili decided. "For Thorin and Fili's sake, we must try."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: So this chapter was not meant to happen. At all. But I wrote a one-shot and then my muse developed a mind of its own. Enjoy the filler. Next chapter is Nordinbad and the tale of how a colony of dwarves came to be hiding out in the Grey Mountains, otherwise known as my shameless reinterpretation of Book/Movie/Game canon.**

**Read, review, and enjoy.**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**P.S. I proofread this, but it is currently 12.54 in the am. Most people will agree, I'm sure,that that is not a good time to do editing.**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 13**

Tauriel's company had made the journey from the foothills of the Grey Mountains to the Elven Gate in just three days, riding both day and night and taking full advantage of the legendary endurance of their steeds. It was a speed Kili's own party could not hope to match, for, whilst sturdy and brave, the ponies lent to Bilbo and Kili by Beorn were not as stalwart as their Eldar cousins, and the company's haste was further hampered by the limitations of some of its members – namely his own. Kili had known full well he wasn't recovered when he made his escape from Erebor. The simple task of changing back into clothes fit for travel had proven that much, but he had been hoping – the only thing he seemed to do of late – that it would be a simple matter of willpower and the sheer stubbornness Thorin had invoked on such regular occasions. And it had worked at first, so long as the elven medicine that had been given to him the moment he was released from their immediate supervision lasted, but even rationed into doses that were far below those he had been instructed to use it had not lasted long beyond Mirkwood's border, and by the end of their fourth day riding along the Anduin's bank the dull, persistent ache in his side and shoulder had grown into a fiery monster.

He had made a point of not showing any sign of his pain before his companions, wiping every grimace off his face when Bilbo or Gandalf glanced his way, stifling the sounds that threatened to escape his clenched teeth every time his pony's gait jolted his injuries further, and being suitably thankful for the fact Beorn seemed content to simply ignore him. He had, somewhat foolishly, forgotten to account for the rest of the company, mostly because they seemed much of a mind with Beorn, happy to mind their own business and let him mind his. Legolas had spoken to them again before departing, and Kili had to wonder what the prince had said, because not a single member of the small scouting party had treated him with anything but the most courteous respect. It was disconcerting to be in the middle of a band of elves and have not a single one of them looking disapproving or at least a little unfriendly, and maybe he should have realized earlier than he did that that meant they might show at least a small amount of concern if they realized he was in pain.

If he was truly honest with himself, however, he didn't have much on his mind by the sun's fourth setting beyond lying down and hoping sleep would prove the miracle cure his body was sorely in need of. He more fell than sat upon his bedroll, and that considerably harder than intended impact didn't help matters in the slightest, leaving him half-lying, half-sitting against his packs and trying to keep breathing without screaming with each exhale.

The pain was not that bad, he assured himself stubbornly, he could manage.

_Liar_, his tortured limbs threw back at him, and sent black spots dancing across his vision to prove their point.

He did not even see the elf captain until she was standing right above him, a small satchel hanging at her side and worry in her eyes as she towered over him.

"Can you not?" Somehow, he somewhere found the strength to muster a grin, though he feared it likely appeared as more of a grimace than it should. "I'm already at a disadvantage."

"My apologies." In a single, fluid movement she knelt at his side, offering him a small smile in return. "Is this better?"

He was still half on his back, in pain, and short on breath, but he had to commend her for trying. "Much."

Tauriel nodded, her smile fading slightly as her eyes drifted to his bound arm. "You are in pain," she stated, the words not a question. "And you have been hiding it from your companions all day."

He winced, though he felt like doing something more extreme, and let his head fall back against his pack. "Clearly not very well."

"From the ones who matter, at least," she corrected her prior statement. "But you will not be able to keep this ruse up much longer, and it would not be wise to do so. No matter how urgently you wish to continue, bringing yourself to harm through negligence will not aid you in this endeavour."

"Well, I'm not turning back," he said, flatly and immovably. "So I guess there's nothing else to do, is there?"

"You could allow me to tend to your injury," Tauriel offered instead, motioning to the single satchel she had brought with her. Kili glanced between her and it for a moment, before raising an eyebrow in question.

"Not just a captain, but a healer as well?"

She laughed slightly, the sound as fair as any that escaped the lips of the Eldar. "It is what many would have preferred I be," she confessed, wearing the look of one recalling a fond memory. "I did train for a time beneath the greatest healers serving King Thranduil, but my blunders were so many they eventually tired of my presence."

Kili blinked. "That… is not entirely reassuring."

"Oh, I know the craft well enough, Master Dwarf," she assured him at once, her smile widening. "It was simply not the path I wished to pursue. I am told I was very stubborn as a child, though some would argue that trait has not abated with age."

She was trying to set him at ease, and Kili was not entirely disappointed by the fact it was working. "In that case I suppose it would not be wise to argue with you."

"A fact the majority of my men would agree with, I assure you."

She stretched out her hands, but had the courtesy to wait on his nod before helping him undo the bindings holding his injured arm in place. It was as much of an effort shrugging his way out of his coat and shirt as it had been getting in the damnable things, and by the time Tauriel had begun unravelling the bandages that formed the layer beneath he was capable of doing little more than lying where he had fallen, watching her face and wondering if he should be glad that he could not truly see the extent of the damage. The brief look of shock that flitted across her face told him he was probably better off not knowing, and he resisted the tempting urge to try and raise his arm from where she had placed it. Oin's warning was still stuck in his mind, however, and if he felt useless now with one hand constantly tied in place how bad would he feel if the affliction became permanent?

"This is not a trifle, Prince Kili," Tauriel observed, sitting back on her heels as she ran her eyes across wounds he could not see. "I would say you have managed well to make it this far. How did you ever convince the healers to let you out of their charge?"

"I can be charming when I want to be?" he suggested, earning himself a sidelong glance.

"I do not doubt it," the elf-maid answered. "But I suspect sheer stubbornness is the more likely cause. Unfortunately, even that will only carry you so far. This is healing well, believe it or not, despite the ordeal you have put yourself through when you should have been doing nothing but resting. I will do what I can to make you more comfortable, but I fear I do not have the supplies I would like in my possession to treat it with."

Kili lifted his one, good shoulder in a half shrug. "I suppose I should have thought to raid the healers' supplies before I ran away."

"You would not have been running anywhere had you tried to steal from the King's healers," Tauriel told him with the knowledge of firsthand experience as she rummaged through her satchel. "Do not let their gentle manners deceive you, Prince Kili, they run like the wind." Having found what she sought, she removed two items from the bag and set them beside her knee before turning back to him. "I have a salve here that will numb the pain, if nothing else, and a cordial to lend you strength, though you must be cautious in its use. If you do not feel pain it is harder to know your limits, so you must ere on the side of caution, or risk making yourself worse."

"I'll be careful," he promised, and hoped he was not lying, for the extent to which he would risk himself depended on how much was asked of him to see this quest end in something besides tragedy.

"Somehow, I doubt that." The Captain's look was knowing. "You do not strike me as a careful person, Prince Kili."

"Oh?" He tilted his head slightly to the side to see her face better. "Which particular injury gave that away?"

Her smile was brief this time, fleeting, and her response was more sober than he expected. "War can take even the most cautious warrior unaware."

There was always a story behind such words, Kili knew, but now was not the time to ask. Instead he allowed her to finish her ministrations in silence, grimacing his way through the task of redressing that was no less arduous for the fact his entire right side was now feeling decidedly numb, and then doubtfully eyeing the measly two drops of cordial she added to his water flask.

"It is strong," she explained, seeing his expression, then handed the flask over. "Drink and then sleep. We move at sunrise."

"Thank you." he spoke before she could return to her company, the words sincere, and the elf-maid turned back to him with a small half smile.

"Thank me in the morning," she said, and walked away.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Kili awoke at dawn to the scent of pipeweed and the soft murmur of muted conversation. Opening his eyes he frowned a moment at the smoke-formed ponies and trolls cavorting about above him, then rolled over onto his side to blink in confusion at the nearest of his companions.

"Gandalf?"

"Ah." The wizard turned to him with a kindly smile. "There you are. We were starting to get worried."

He frowned, all the more confused, and it was Bilbo who offered an answer.

"You've been sleeping for three nights and two days," the hobbit said disapprovingly, though Kili had the strangest feeling it wasn't the length of his slumber Bilbo disapproved of. "And by the look of you, even that is not enough."

His mind was slow to grasp the situation at hand, his head full of cobwebs, but when realization struck him it did so with all the force of a thunderbolt.

"Two _days_?" he exclaimed frantically, pushing himself up as swiftly as his one good arm would allow. "How…"

The world dipped and gave a sickening lurch, and Kili promptly fell back where he had been lying a moment before. Gasping, he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Once it had he opened his eyes again to be met by the sight of two disapproving faces, one of the individuals to which they belonged holding a decidedly familiar empty flask aloft.

"Elvish medicine," Gandalf said casually, almost conversationally, and Kili, knowing this to be a bad sign, slowly pushed himself upright again. His head was still spinning, but it was a bearable sensation if he did not move too swiftly. "Is incredibly diverse. They have remedies for so many things you would not believe how many exist. This particular concoction, if I am not mistaken, is a particularly strong sleeping draught, known to be extremely potent in even the lowest of doses."

His mind took a few moments to absorb that information, but once it had he let his gaze rove in search of Tauriel, finding the elf captain standing a short distance away.

"You drugged me," he accused her, earning a slight shrug of apology in return.

"When a wizard makes a request of you, it is not wise to gainsay him," she replied, nodding towards Gandalf. "Your friends are not so careless with your health as you are. I merely gave you what they knew you needed."

"A pity she did not give you some common sense to go with it," Gandalf added sharply as he tossed the empty flask into Kili's lap. "How much help do you think it will be to your kin if you take ill before we can even draw near enough to discover if they are truly alive?"

"I can manage." Gandalf's words heralded the chance of this entire quest grinding to a halt, and Kili would not have that. With a mighty effort he gained his feet, standing as tall as he could before the considerably taller wizard and determinedly holding his ground. "Gandalf, we do not have time for delays…"

"Delays, he says!" the wizard exclaimed with a familiar sense of frustration Kili had heard a dozen times before, always directed at his uncle. "Foolishness and stubbornness, thy name is Kili! Sit down, boy, before you fall down."

Kili did so gratefully, and not without a helping hand from Bilbo that kept him from overbalancing entirely, but he did not take his stare away from the wizard's face. Gandalf's expression was discontented, but also thoughtful, and Kili took that as reason to hope. The wizard was not known for keeping his opinions to himself, after all, and he had yet to make that demand Kili dreaded most. That he should go back to Erebor. That he should forget this quest and any chance of success it had. That he should do what he could not do, and accept that his family was dead, never to truly know if Thorin had forgiven him or whether Balin was simply trying to ease the pain of his loss. Never to be able to beg his brother's forgiveness, and see once more a glint in his eye that was not put there by the luster of gold. Because that was what dead meant, wasn't it? Absence in permanence, pain that would never depart, only fade, and the stark reality of a world devoid forevermore of their presence.

"In any case you are fretting needlessly," Gandalf continued, unaware of his sobering thoughts. "We have come a long way in the time you were sleeping, and you owe Beorn many thanks for playing the part of pack pony. Had he not been willing, we would have simply flung you over the back of one of the actual ponies and let you feel the full consequences of your idiocy."

Heeding only what was important and not the following rant, Kili took a moment to do what he had not done before, and glanced about their surroundings in elated surprise. Gone was the Anduin and its slow running waters, for their camp lay now on the green field beside one of its two tributaries, the stream known as the Greylin, and beyond that, looming on the horizon with a presence they had not had two days before, were the snow capped peaks of the Grey Mountains. He had not been prepared for the surge of emotion their sight invoked, and he sat speechless for several long moments, his eyes damper than they should have been. His journey was far from over, but another step closer to its end had been taken, and Kili could feel his hope and dread warring for dominance with more ferocity each day.

His companions allowed him his moment to gather himself, and _only_ that moment, for he had barely torn his eyes away from the mountains' ridgeline when Bilbo dumped a bowl and spoon in his lap and stood watch to make sure he consumed it all. Tauriel was next, not at all apologetic for her deceit the last time they had spoken, and Kili remembered the constant advice Thorin had handed out about not trusting elves and wondered if he should have paid more attention. He did feel better, though, so one could argue she had been acting with his best interest in mind, even if it was on the command of a wizard.

"It is much better," she told him once she was finished. "But I was not speaking in jest earlier. You must be careful."

"And not just in regards to my shoulder, obviously," he fired back. "Did you learn that trick from the healers or the warriors?"

"Neither." It was not a smile this time, but an honest grin. "I learnt it from my mother."

With that ambiguous statement she left him in Gandalf's care, the wizard flanked by Beorn, in human form this time, who was to be their guide now that they had reached the mountains.

"We will go on foot," the skinchanger said. "It is too steep a climb for the ponies, and we do not wish to alarm those who have taken refuge in the heights."

"What will happen if we do?" Bilbo asked warily, and Kili realized that the hobbit was rearranging their packs into two separate bundles. He would have argued against what was clearly an attempt to spare him any added weight, save for the fact he was still feeling decidedly unsteady on his legs.

"I imagine they will fire upon us before we can even knock upon the gates," Beorn rumbled, either unaware or uncaring of how discomforting his words were. "But we are only four. It is unlikely they will fear us."

"With our luck, it won't matter if it's unlikely or not, it'll still happen," the hobbit grumbled, shouldering his own pack and passing the other to Gandalf. "Dwarves are such a ridiculous lot, really. Er… No offense, Kili."

"Oh, no, I'm not arguing," he assured the hobbit. "We are here, are we not?"

"And soon to be elsewhere," Gandalf concluded, turning as their elven guard approached them, mounted again and ready to make their own departure. Kili still found it hard to believe they had even _had _a guard for the journey thus far, much less an eleven one. "Many thanks to you, Tauriel, for all your aid."

"I am not sure Prince Kili shares your sentiments," the elf-maid responded with a smile. "But you are welcome, regardless." She turned to Kili then. "For what it is worth, Master Dwarf, I hope you do find them. You deserve nothing less after having come so far."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

It was a sad truth, but Erebor was not the first home Durin's Folk had been forced to flee. Gundabad had been stolen, reclaimed, and stolen again multiple times before the orcs finally took it as their own. Moria had been taken from them by Durin's Bane, that terrifying nemesis whose name was known to all dwarves. The Grey Mountains, however, had been torn from the grasp of Durin's Folk by cold-drakes, the lesser cousins of dragons like Smaug, who had made up for their lack of fire with sheer numbers. Kili's own ancestor, Dain I and his son, Fror, had both been slain in that terrible battle, and to this day the treasure halls beneath the mountain range remained infested with the vicious creatures. This perhaps explained why Nordinbad had stood in secrecy for so long, because no dwarf in his right mind would wish to tread the halls in the north whilst the cold drakes still made the Grey Mountains their home.

The path Beorn led them up was on the westernmost of the mountains that formed the Ered Mithrin, a steeply climbing trail that appeared well used for all the difficulty it must surely prove to those who traveled it. There was already snow on the lower flanks of the mount, but the path itself was relatively clear, sheltered almost, and it was not until midday had passed and the evening was drawing in that the small band found themselves forced to tread actual snow. That was when the trail abandoned its straight path and veered away in a looping curve to their right, but their guide chose not to follow it, the skinchanger leading them instead up the rounded height the road had turned to avoid. Trailing behind the rest of his companions, Kili was the last to mount the small summit, and found his breath catching in the cool air for an entirely different reason than it had over the past few weeks.

The ground dropped steeply away just a few feet before him, a deep ravine carving its way between one rise and another. On the other side of the saddle there stood a taller peak than that they now rested on, its rugged edges stretching higher and higher and narrower and narrower so that tip of the summit was a finely tapered end. It was in that very mountain, shaped in such a way as to be a part of the peak itself, that Nordinbad stood, the setting sun reflecting off its western facing side, making the pale cream stone of which the city was built gleam in the coming twilight.

The face of the city stood some four stories high, each level formed like a step above the other. The lowest was a great, jutting terrace stretched out in a blunted triangle, its prow hanging over the sheer precipice of the valley's side in defiance to the deadly height, and a turret connected to each of its lower corners by a narrow, stone bridge. A second story rose from the midst of the first, smaller and more squared, forming a right and left flank for the third, which itself started directly atop the first in the tall arch of the front gate and stretched above the second to form a defensive battlement above. Kili could see three windlances placed along the rim of the wall, each pointed in a different direction, and knew that, whatever else it might be, Nordinbad was well defended. The fourth and final story was a round, stone pavilion, the roof of which was itself the mountain's tip, and behind which on either side could be seen smaller turrets similar to those that flanked the lowest level, reachable by walkways that vanished into the mountain's flanks. It was an imposing sight, an old dwarvish kingdom still wholly intact, and Kili wondered suddenly how he was ever going to convince the lord of these halls to risk the safety he had built here for the sake of a king he did not even know.

"The path loops around to the eastern turret," Beorn explained, breaking the awed silence that had fallen, though Kili suspected only he and Bilbo had been affected by the sight. Beorn had, after all, been here before, and there seemed very little that inspired awe in the wizard. "But it is not safe to tread at night. There is a cave below we may take shelter in. We can approach the city in the morning, when daybreak may lend the guards more patience for unwanted guests."

"A mountain cave?" Bilbo said doubtfully. "Don't those tend to be filled with goblins and the like?"

"The dwarves of Nordinbad keep their lands clear," Beorn replied simply, turning away from the sight of the city. "Come. Night will fall soon, and you will find that an unmarked pit is just as deadly as an orc's blade in the dark."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Aren't I productive? XD. Actually, truth be told, this is one of the chapters that has been written out for twelve months just waiting for me to write the parts that go in between. I just edited and added a little. Anyway, enjoy the double chapter whammy.**

**Read, review, enjoy,**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 14**

"Are you allowed to take that off?"

There was doubt in Bilbo's voice as he asked his question, along with something close to alarm, but Kili remained calm as he worked his arm free of its bindings, answering without even glancing the hobbit's way.

"This task will be hard enough without giving them extra reason to doubt me, and I do not intend to go in there brandishing my sword. It will not hurt to have it free for a little while."

"That's not what the healers said," Bilbo said sharply, and Kili raised his head to peer at the Halfling through the strands of loose hair that fell across his eyes. "Are you sure you don't want one of us to come with you?"

Kili sighed, tugging the last of the bracing wraps free and casting them onto the ground beside the stacked packs. Bilbo was referencing the argument of that morning, though, surprisingly, Gandalf had not been entirely against the idea when he voiced it, and Beorn had agreed that the dwarves of Nordinbad were far more likely to _not_ shoot a solitary member of their own race than they were to welcome the strange quartet their company was formed of. It was Bilbo who had raised the most fuss, the hobbit evidently having appointed himself as Kili's warden for the extent of this hopeless venture, and not at all pleased by the prince's mad scheme of the day.

"This is something I need to do myself," he assured his burglar friend. "If I need help, I'll be sure to call on you."

"If you can, you mean," Bilbo reminded him with what could only be pessimism as he escorted the prince to the cave's entrance. "How do you know they won't lock you up or kill you the moment you are in their halls?"

"They're dwarves, Bilbo, not elves," Kili retorted. "And they wouldn't need to take me inside if they wanted to end me. I'm sure hurling me over the mountain side would do it."

"A fate, it may be hoped, is not to be yours," Gandalf said, joining the conversation, but making no move to rise from where he was seated. "You do look a fine mess, so perhaps they will take pity on you."

"You are all so cheerful this morning," Kili grumbled, adjusting the weight of his weapons against his back to ease the strain on his right shoulder.

"We are just wondering how long we should allow you before we come in after you," Bilbo answered, and Kili turned to scowl at him.

"I can manage by myself."

The hobbit gave him a incredulous look in return, and Kili was reminded that was perhaps not the best choice of words he could have made. Gandalf had certainly not appreciated them, and even Legolas had looked doubtful the first time he used them.

"I am only going to talk to them," he said aloud, more to reassure himself than they as he tried to forget the fact the fate of his kin may well rest on how eloquently he worded his request.

"Address them as you did the council in Erebor and I am sure you will get along splendidly," Gandalf answered him confidently, glancing up as Beorn reemerged from wherever he had vanished to in the interim.

"You are ready?" he asked, addressing Kili directly, and, suddenly without words to offer, the young dwarf simply nodded. Bidding a hasty farewell to Bilbo and Gandalf he followed the skinchanger down from the rise that nestled the place where they had sheltered for the night, trailing in the big man's footsteps until they reached once more a recognizable road. There they parted ways, and Kili made a point of not glancing back as he strode on alone.

The path was as narrow and winding as Beorn's words the night before had implied, a sheer drop on one side that Kili stayed well away from as he slowly circled the ravine's eastern wall. He could feel eyes upon him the nearer he drew to the turret, and the feeling of being watched did not abate as he mounted the steps leading to the single opening in the stone structure. He was greeted at the gates by dwarves both dour in face and demeanor, and Kili got a more than vague impression that they were far from pleased to see him. Resisting the urge to simply turn around and walk away again he stood his ground proudly, not moving or speaking, and keeping his gaze pinned on the one he deduced to be their captain as others came forward to take his weapons. Once he was stripped of his arms the captain stepped forward, his tone sharp and curt.

"Speak, stranger!" he demanded, and there was no warmth in his voice. "What is your purpose in Ered Mithrin?"

"I am Kili," he answered, stifling the pain of connections he was not convinced he still had any right to name. "Of Ered Luin. I am here on behalf of Thorin Oakenshield, and desire to speak with the Lord of these Halls."

The Captain looked momentarily startled, though whether that was due to the mention of Kili's home or his request was as much a mystery as Nordinbad itself was.

"Bruni!" The Captain turned and shouted, and a dwarf in his middle years darted forth from the group. "Take a message to Lord Northri," his leader ordered. "Tell him of our guest, and who he claims to be."

"Yes, father." Turning on his heel Bruni sprinted off as the Captain turned back to Kili with a suspicious glance.

"Do you often get visitors claiming to be the envoys of kings when they are not, then?" It was not the most diplomatic thing to say, but Kili did not appreciate having his word questioned.

"We don't get visitors at all," came the grim reply. "And that you know of this place is reason enough for suspicion. I can only imagine what business Thorin Oakenshield might have with Lord Northri, but I doubt it will be to his liking."

"I said I was here on Thorin's behalf, not to conduct his business," Kili answered.

The Captain frowned. "I see not the difference."

Kili simply shook his head, unwilling to elaborate upon his purpose before any other than Lord Northri himself. Instead he let his eyes wander over the walls of Nordinbad, hewn stone as old as that within Erebor itself, a standing beacon of ages past. The sound of quick footsteps brought his gaze back to the main gates, and he watched as Bruni approached his father.

"Lord Northri will see our guest," he proclaimed. "I am to lead him below."

"Very well, then." The Captain beckoned Kili forward. "You will go with my son," he told him. "But do not attempt treachery or deceit. Any betrayal of our trust will end with a swift death."

Kili nodded his understanding, then followed Bruni silently through the main gates, hearing the finality of their clang behind him. He was truly alone now, with no Bilbo or Gandalf to help him, but he did not let that stop him. The dwarves of Nordinbad held the key to saving his family, there could be not a single faltering step in his quest to acquire their aid.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Northri, son of Dorin, distant descendant of the Line of Durin, had ruled beneath the Grey Mountains for many, many years without anyone being the wiser as to his presence in the ancient halls of Nordinbad. His people had fled there prior to the Battle of Azanulbizar, where King Thror had finally given himself over to madness in its entirety and had tried to reclaim Moria, that place which all dwarves knew to be inhabited by an evil far greater than the orcs that had slain so many of their kin there. Northri, who had been only just come into adulthood when the dragon attacked, had not been willing to face death at the hands of a mad King after having seen his father and brothers perish through wounds brought on by dragon fire and the harshness of the Wild that allowed for no restful recovery. He had instead taken the secret whispered by Dorin on his deathbed, gathering those of his people who were willing, including his own wife and son, and had fled to the ancient, hallowed halls beneath the Ered Mithrin, a secret sanctuary his family had kept hidden from even their own kin for the many generations that had passed since the Grey Mountains were first abandoned by Durin's Folk. He had never regretted his actions, not after hearing of the slaughter that had befallen at Moria, and he had made it a law in his lands that if any ventured forth to do trade or travel they were not to mention their home or where it lay.

Secrecy was the lifeblood of his people, and it was now threatened.

He had never been overly fond of the line of Thror as a young soldier. Neither the King Under the Mountain nor his son had cared adequately for their people in their exile, too wound up in their own grief at the loss of their riches and home, but Thorin, at least, had earned his respect. There were few princes indeed who would labor so willingly among and for their people, and if bitterness and dark, black fury had taken a stronger hold in his heart each day than Northri could not begrudge him his feelings. Saddled with the burden of leadership when most dwarves were not past their training days, Thorin Oakenshield had proved without question that he was of Durin's blood. But for all his strength and determination Thorin had been unwillingly to do more than speak out against his father and grandfather, he refused to _act_, and so the massacre of Moria had not been averted.

It was yet another tragedy thrust upon the dwarves of Erebor, but Northri still remembered an exodus at midnight, and a young dwarf prince and his brother, who had both spoken their farewells without rancor, and given their blessing to those who did not wish to face all but certain death alongside them. Thorin had emerged from that battle a King, and Frerin, like so many others, had not emerged at all.

It was the remembrance of Thorin's actions on that night that had stayed Northri's hand when word came from the front gate of an envoy sent by Durin's heir. He had not commanded the messenger sent away, no matter how much he might have wished to, because there were debts to be paid here, and, even as he dreaded that the darkness of Thror's line might yet come to enshroud Nordinbad, he would not let this ambassador go unanswered. He must, after all, yet discover how his realm's secrecy had been betrayed, and to what purpose now Thorin sought his council, perhaps even his aid. He had instead summoned his steward, Galar, and his own son and grandson, Gorin and Nordri, those whose council he valued the most. Together they would hear whatever words were to be spoken, and a decision would be made from there.

Pacing back and forth along the length of the sparsely furnished hall that served as his place of precedence, though no true throne adorned its interior, he ignored Galar's fierce frown and Nordri's slightly wondering expression, even whilst noting their vastly different reactions. Like himself, Galar felt a fierce protectiveness for the secrecy of Nordinband, and no great amount of love for the direct Line of Durin. He would sooner see Thorin's envoy tossed from the heights above than risk losing their safehold. Nordri was young, a mere ninety passes, and, despite Gorin's efforts to instill lessons he himself had learned in his son, the youth still hungered for the outside world, and listened to tales of battle and glory and riches with an attentive ear. Gorin's own face was inscrutable, but there was a flash of eager fire in his eyes. His son understood their need for secrecy and would never jeopardize it, but he was not yet wholly impervious to the allure of being a part of the world beyond their home. It made Northri worry, sometimes, for the welfare of his city once he had departed from it, but such worries had no place in the present.

The great doors swung open, and Northri ceased his pacing to turn and watch as Bruni led their visitor forward, his own surprise nearly causing him to startle.

Kili of Ered Luin had been the name given at the gate, with none of the customary titles or ancestors attached, which suggested the common blood one might expect to see in a messenger. But Northri could easily have mistaken the weatherworn, ragged young dwarf marching towards him with a steady and firm gait as Thorin's own offspring. The familiar lines of the young face, the dark hair, and even the set of his shoulders screamed of his ties to the Line of Durin. But his eyes, dark and determined and dire, were solely his mother's. Northri had known Dis, daughter of Thrain, before his flight, perhaps even better than he had known Thorin, and he had no doubts as to who had mothered the young dwarf before him.

But, then, why had he chosen to introduce himself without mention of the lineage that would have immediately afforded him respect? Northri narrowed his eyes as Bruni led Kili to stand before the assembled council, curiosity and suspicion warring inside him before their guest had even spoken his first word. When at length he did speak it was with both humility and courtesy, two things that often came unlooked for in Durin's line.

"Hail, Lord Northri," the young dwarf said with a bow that betrayed a stiffness of limb he had not shown when walking. Northri's keen eyes noted the way he kept his right arm tightly folded across his chest, and the bruises not quite hidden by the mere shadow of a beard on his cheeks. "You have my thanks for agreeing to see me, and not just tossing me over the nearest convenient cliff."

That was a swift departure from propriety, and reminded him of the black humor that had often escaped Frerin's lips. He saw Nordri hide a smile out of the corner of his eye even as he answered, "We are not in the habit of receiving guests, but that does not mean we guard our secrecy by killing all those who might threaten it, and certainly not our own kin. Though I would have from you the names of those who betrayed us."

Such carelessness was inexcusable, after all, and the perpetrators, whoever they proved to be, would be dealt with in short order. If not by himself than by Galar, who was often possessed of the sharper tongue out of the two of them.

"None betrayed you," Kili answered simply. "And your secrecy remains intact. I alone was told of your whereabouts, and not by any who now dwell here. I will not give you the name of my informant, but I do give you my word he will not be a danger to you."

Experience with the young dwarf's uncle told Northri that was likely to be all the knowledge offered on the subject, and, whilst he dearly wished to demand further answers, he trusted the truth of the matter would be revealed at length. He believed, at least, that Kili was being honest in both his declaration of whom had been told and the safety of trusting the one who had been doing the telling. It was enough for now, and his curiosity would not let him linger on a matter he could not resolve when there were other things to be spoken of.

"Very well," he said instead. "I will accept your reassurances for now, if only because there are more urgent matters to discuss. What brings an envoy of Ered Luin to Nordinbad, and why, if one needed to be sent, did Thorin choose a member of his own house?"

The flinch made at the mention of Thorin's house was barely perceptible, but it was there, and Northri frowned, wondering at its meaning. Had he been wrong in his assumption? But, no, the lad's similarity to Dis, and, to a lesser degree, Thorin and Frerin also, was striking. There could be no doubt as to the blood from whence he came, even if he chose not to announce it. Northri's ponderings were swiftly forgotten, however, when Kili spoke again.

"I come not from Ered Luin," he said quietly. "But from Erebor."

There was a brief, shattering silence, then Galar burst forth in anger.

"Do you take us for fools?" his advisor demanded furiously. "Erebor is lost, and has been lost for longer than you have lived. It is the dragon's domain now."

"The dragon is dead." Kili's words fell like heavy stones into the lake of Azan-zâram, sending out thick ripples across the still water. "He was slain by Bard of Esgaroth, descendant of Girion of Dale, when he tried to take vengeance on the people of Lake Town for the aid they offered to Thorin and his Company in their hour of need. He lies now beneath the waters of the Long Lake."

"Smaug is dead?" Gorin exclaimed in surprise, needing confirmation.

"He is." Kili nodded, and there was something unutterably weary about the gesture. "And Erebor is ours again, though a heavy toll in blood was paid for its reclaiming. You live in isolation, but some tiding of the battle must surely have reached you."

"We knew of orcs and goblins moving throughout the mountain tunnels," Northri admitted. "But that battle had been joined? That we did not know."

"It was fought at the foot of the mountain," Kili elaborated. "Elves, men, and dwarves stood in allegiance against the enemy, and even then we would have been overwhelmed had it not been for further aid that came unlooked for."

"Thorin Oakenshield fighting alongside elves?" Galar snorted. "I would think him sooner to die unaided then accept their help."

"They did not come to offer help," Kili replied softly. "They were in the midst of besieging the mountain when the enemy came upon us."

"And the tale grows even more twisted!" Northi exclaimed. "Perhaps you should start at the beginning, my friend."

"That would make for a long telling." The slight blanching Kili made at the idea was well concealed, but Northri did not miss the small gesture. Taking a second look at his guest he recognized now how starkly the bruises stood out against pale skin and the sunken shadows beneath dark eyes that betrayed a sorrow too deep to hide. Whilst his demeanor might have been calm and steady, the young dwarf himself was not, and exhaustion shone through in his words and actions despite his efforts to hide it.

"Then perhaps it would be best shared over the morning meal," he replied, coming to a decision. "Come, Kili. This is a story I would hear."

Though he looked set to protest, Kili swallowed whatever words were on the tip of his tongue, inclining his head in a gesture of assent, and trailing along when Northri led the gathering to the dining hall. Ignoring the curious stares that were cast their way from the other occupied tables Northri took his place at the head of his own, with Kili and Nordri on his left hand and Gorin and Galar on his right. Bruni he sent back to his father, much to the younger dwarf's disappointment. Once they were settled, with food placed before them, Northri turned again to his visitor.

"So tell me," he began. "How Thorin Oakenshield came to lead a Company of dwarves in a quest to reclaim Erebor."

"It began with a wizard." Kili, who despite – or perhaps because of – his pallor seemed to have little interest in the meal laid before him, pushed his plate aside and rested his arms on the table as he spoke. "Gandalf the Grey. Thorin was abroad at the time of their meeting, in Bree, if memory serves aright, and already with ideas of retaking Erebor, though he no doubt thought he was keeping it well hidden from us. His meeting with Gandalf served to offer a means to that end, and when Thorin returned to Ered Luin it was with the purpose of gathering together those who were willing to dare the dragon's keep. In the end, twelve of us answered the call, with Gandalf, Thorin, and our Burglar making fifteen."

"A burglar?" Nordri interrupted. "Why did you need a burglar?"

"There were thirteen of us," Kili reminded him with black amusement. "Force of arms was never going to work. Not if we kept to the plan Gandalf had conceived for us. Though few in number we hoped to use that to our advantage, and set off without trying to attain further aid. We were pursued all across the Lone Lands by orcs out of Moria, led by none other than Azog the Defiler, but eventually made it to Rivendell still in one piece. From there we struck out across the Misty Mountains, and, after a brief mishap in Goblin Town, we made it out the other side, if a good deal further north then we had intended. We traveled through Mirkwood next, and were again waylaid by Thranduil, but escaped his hospitality also and at length made it to Lake Town, where we took the time to gain provisions and rest before setting out for the mountain itself. The front gates were still closed to us, but, thanks to Gandalf, we knew of another way into the mountain, though it took a goodly amount of time to find. From there our Burglar scouted out the mountain's interior, and was able to discern a weakness in Smaug's armour, which Bard of Dale in turn used to slay the beast when he descended upon Esgaroth in rage. We had news of the dragon's death through Roac the raven, who also brought word of an elven army bearing down upon us. Thorin ordered the mountain fortified, and sent word to Dain Ironfoot for aid. We were besieged long before he reached us by both elves and men, who refused Dain entrance to the mountain upon his arrival. It would doubtlessly have come to blows had the enemy not chosen that moment to appear. All grudges were forgotten in the wake of a common foe, and we stood united against the forces Azog had gathered to ensure the destruction of the Line of Durin. Battle was made and many died on both sides, but the united peoples were victorious in the end, and peace was made between them. Smaug and Azog are both perished, and Erebor and Dale are now being healed of the dragon's shadow."

Northri was silent, then, absorbing the unlikely tale. Kili had abbreviated it mightily, he knew, and he had also not failed to notice that no mention was made of his own ties to Thorin. Something lay yet hidden, though he could not discern what.

"So, then," Galar spoke gruffly. "What is it that the King Under the Mountain desires of us?"

"Nothing," Kili responded tensely. "For the crown sits now on the head of Dain Ironfoot. Thorin was taken prisoner in the battle, as was his heir, and it is my purpose to rescue them."

He had thought the lad had no further power to surprise him, but he was wrong.

"Prisoner?" Gorin stated bluntly, if with a little more sympathy than Galar. "How do you know he is not simply dead?"

"He was taken alive," Kili responded firmly. "And lived yet when the orcs took to their tunnels. Bolg was the one to capture him."

Northi instantly stiffened. _Bolg_. There was no dwarf who did not know the name of the dungeon master of Dol Guldur, a skilled torturer who delighted in prolonging the suffering of his foes. The longer he could keep his prisoners in agony the better, and he could well believe Bolg would have desired to take Thorin alive if he could manage it. With Dol Guldur lost to him, he had no doubt made for Gundabad and his keep beneath that mount, taking his prisoners with him, which easily explained the presence of this young warrior in his hall.

"Even if he is alive," he said. "You cannot hope to enter Gundabad alone, much less come out the other side."

"I have companions willing to go with me," Kili explained. "But I know it is a likely death I walk to, nonetheless. That is why I sought your aid. You know these mountains, and you knew of the orcs moving through their pathways. You must know, then, of a way to get inside the mountain, besides the front gate."

"And what if we do?" Galar demanded. "What would you then ask of us? To throw away what few warriors we have in a vain attempt to save a dwarf who is likely already dead?"

"I would ask nothing but the use of your knowledge." Kili met Galar's stare with a steady regard of his own, dark eyes carrying a weight of sorrows, and a burden that went beyond his self-imposed quest to save his kin. "I go to my death, but I would not have any of you follow."

There was a grumbling among his councilors at Kili's words, and Northri himself frowned, torn. The young dwarf's answer was not what he might have expected from one of Kili's lineage, who called upon followers and expected them to answer without question, but it did not wholly surprise him either. This boy who stood before him now, a mere child who had walked in and out of the fiery chasm of war, wrought now by its flames into something he had not been before, bore no undue pride. Instead there was humility and something close to shame, paired with simple, raw desperation that lingered in the air along with a plea he should have dismissed immediately, but found himself incapable of refusing out of hand. To see that resignation, that willingness to walk to his own death, in one who was younger than his own grandson was a thing he could not ignore.

He had walked away from Thorin and Frerin, his friends, albeit with their blessing, and he remembered well the same look, or something like it, touching both their faces. They had knowingly walked to their deaths and only one had survived the gamble, would he now see the same happen again with young Kili?

"We must discuss this amongst ourselves," he said at last, feeling the weight of his people's safety weighing on his shoulders, along with the debt he owed Thorin. "You have my leave to wander freely within Nordinbad, but speak of your purpose here to no one."

"As you wish, Lord Northri." Inclining his head in acknowledgement, Kili rose stiffly and departed from the largely deserted dining hall.

Once he was gone, Nordri spoke, "He was injured, grandfather."

Northri nodded, unsurprised, knowing one would have had to be all but blind to miss the signs. "I know."

"And yet he still wishes to hunt for them?"

His grandson may never have seen battle, but he knew better than to ignore wounds. Shaking his head Northri voiced a sad truth, "The line of Durin has always been foolhardy."

"Nay," unexpectedly, Galar disagreed. "Foolhardiness would be entering the Mount with the expectation of victory. That boy is all but seeking death, and he knows it. That is not foolhardiness, my lord, that is loyalty, and a rare strain of the same indeed."

"I thought you were against aiding him," Gorin said in surprise.

"I was against expelling our strength for such a hopeless cause," Galar corrected his fellow. "But if the boy wishes to hasten to his own demise I will not gainsay him. He is Thorin Oakenshield's nephew, whether he chooses to claim as much or no, and that line was ever prone to feats of either great courage or madness."

"Then the question is not whether we should aid him," Northri concluded. "But what form that aid should take. Do we give him a means and send him on to his inevitable death, or do we risk all that we have built here and grant him what aid he truly needs?"

No answer was immediately forthcoming, and Northri settled back in his seat with a slight sigh. This would, without a doubt, be a long debate, and so he turned to his grandson.

"Nordri, see to my rounds for the morning, if you would. I fear we may be here a long while."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I am getting to the lovely reviews you people have left, I promise, but I had to decide whether to spend my time writing or replying, and I figured you would all appreciate another chapter over a bunch of thank yous.**

**Speaking of thank yous, this is only the second story I have ever written to break the 100 review mark. I really appreciate all the support, so thank you, and I will get to answering your reviews as soon as I can.**

**Read, review, and enjoy,**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 15**

Dwarf kingdoms, with or without treasure, were often things of excess. One had only to look at Erebor's grand walkways, arching staircases, and towering ceilings to realize dwarves believed in grandeur as a way of life. Even in Ered Luin, where their riches were much humbler fare and their homes far simpler, there had been signs of the same; extravagant halls, ornate stonework, great doors into hallways that stood many times higher than they needed to be. But such was not the case in Nordinbad.

The pathways Kili walked as he slowly explored the city were more of natural stone than carved walls, caverns more than halls. Rough edges had been left untouched, fashioned only where absolutely necessary, and even decoration proved a sparse thing. A few paintings adorned rockfaces sporadically along the route he walked, but most seemed haphazard, a second thought, added only to cover any blemishes in the stone that did not add to Nordinbad's rustic beauty. The true crowning glory of Northri's halls, however, was the lake of Azan-Zâram, a natural wonder Kili found more beautiful than any gemstones he had ever seen.

Only a single, humble stone bridge spanned the blue-tinted waters of the lake, a clear effort not to disturb or change the natural wonder. Wild rock formations jutted up from the waters and down from ceiling above, each with its own unique shape, and shafts of light made the water glow where they made their way down through airways leading outside. A multitude of small waterfalls poured into the still waters from fissures in the walls, and even the cavern that housed the water was a work of art, stone curving and twisting in truly awe inspiring patterns. It was not hard to see why any who stumbled across this haven might desire to keep it a secret, and Kili doubted anew the chances of Lord Northri lending him aid. When this was all he had to lose, why would he ever risk it?

"Beautiful, is it not?" The voice that addressed him was not young, and Kili turned to find himself face to face with an elderly dwarf maiden, her grey hair pulled back into elaborate, circling braids and her dark eyes twinkling with a sense of youth her wizened face did not show as she strode across to join him on the bridge. "Nordinbad is not rich in gold or jewels, nor is it overabundant in other metals, and I daresay most would think us mad for choosing to live here, starved of most basic necessities and with little wealth to our names, but there are some things upon which a price cannot be laid."

"It is beautiful," he agreed softly, eyes straying across the brilliant waters of the underground lake, before returning to the face of his companion. "I can see why Lord Northri would want to keep this place hidden."

"Aye," she agreed with a slight smile. "My husband puts great faith in the safety of secrecy, and it has certainly been beneficial to those who dwell here, but sometimes I cannot help but think of those we left behind. Those we abandoned." She turned from the lake then, meeting Kili's gaze directly as she asked, "I have not seen Dis for many a long year. How is your mother?"

"She is well." Actually, that could well be a blatant lie, for Kili did not how much news Gloin had chosen to send back to Ered Luin. Had his mother been told of Thorin and Fili's supposed passing yet? Did she know he himself was gone from the mountain? The ravens carried news swiftly, and he was struck by sudden guilt, realizing for the first time how grossly he had neglected his duty to the one person who he should have been thinking of the most. Thorin's death alone would have been heartbreaking for his mother, without news that Fili had fallen as well, and if she was told he was missing too…

"Of course she is," the Lady of Nordinbad commented, breaking through his panicked, spiraling thoughts. "She was always strong, that one. Erebor's greatest treasure, as we used to call her."

"Thorin still does," he offered, earning himself a smile from his elder.

"I'm not surprised," she said, a glint of memory in her eyes. "She's the only person I know who could turn that dwarf as soft as butter and then turn around and give him an upbraiding for something no other would dare." She seemed to shake herself slightly then, pulling away from her recollections as she scolded herself. "But where are my manners? Here I am rattling away about old times and I have not even introduced myself yet! I am Runa, wife of Northri and the Lady of these halls. It is an honor to have you here among us, Prince Kili."

She had clearly spoken to her lord before coming to see him, and Kili fought the urge to cringe at the title. He had never borne it before his theft of the Arkenstone, and, though he was certain all those who had uttered it since had meant well, he shrank from the many meanings it carried with it.

"I am not sure Lord Northri would agree with that sentiment," he answered cautiously, earning a light laugh from his companion.

"He is not one to appreciate a good shake up, that is for certain," she agreed amiably. "But that does not mean he is displeased to see you. We both served the royal house for a time, he in the guard and I as one of the princesses' companions, and if there is one thing I would have chosen not to trade in exchange for our safety here it would have been the friendships we forged with the youngest generation of Thror's house. I would have liked to see the home Thorin built for our people in Ered Luin, or the dwarf who managed to tame your mother's wild heart. Alas, these are the things we sacrificed for our home, our sanctuary, not all without regret."

He could well understand the sentiment, the price he had paid in Erebor's reclaiming well beyond that he would have chosen to had the decision not been taken out of his hands. Thorin had filled his and Fili's childhood with stories of the mountain and what it could have been for them, but Kili had never been discontented with his lot in Ered Luin. He had had a home there, formed of the people he called his family, and in trying to reclaim another of a more material sort he had lost that which was far more precious to him. That which he was now striving to retrieve, with no guarantee success was even still a possibility.

A hand landed on his cheek, and he jerked his head up in surprise, staring into the compassionate gaze of the Lady of Nordinbad.

"You poor child," she murmured sadly. "What has the world done to you?"

He did not have an answer to offer her, words lost to him, and none seemed expected regardless. Runa did not wait for an answer, or even permission, taking matters into her own hands as she stepped forward and enshrouded him in a motherly embrace. Kili stiffened briefly, the comfort from an essential stranger both unexpected and unlooked for, yet at the same time sorely needed. Runa's grasp was loose enough to allow him to pull away should he wish to, but the desire to stay where he was proved stronger than the thought that he should not, and his sound arm rose of its own accord to return the hold as he tucked his head down and buried his face in her shoulder to hide from all that he could not escape.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

It was midday before Kili was called back to the grand dining hall, Runa having spent the morning escorting him around Nordinbad and shamelessly sharing tales of his mother and uncles' youth that he was quite certain neither would ever have told him given the choice, and then comparing them with the exploits of her own son and grandson. She had kept their conversation light, far from the purpose it was clear she knew had drawn him here, but that had not stopped it from preying on his mind, so that his heart was filled with nothing but dread as he stepped through the archway into the hall and then stopped utterly dead. The room that had been formerly deserted was now flooded with Nordinbad's citizens, every table filled, and every eye turned to where their lord utilized his own as a podium, visible to all in the room.

From his height he spotted Kili and Runa immediately, and beckoned both forward. Acutely conscious of the many curious gazes pinned upon him Kili hastened across the space between the door and the Lord of Nordinbad's chosen perch as swiftly as he could manage, only to be hauled up by Gorin and made to stand right alongside Northri once he got there. Those that were watching him did not do so for long, however, turning to Northri as their lord began to speak.

"My friends," he boomed, voice carrying to every corner of the chamber. "Many of you will still remember the day when these halls were reclaimed by our people, and those of you who were not there to see it happen have been told the tale often enough. You will remember how a fire breathing menace stole Erebor from us and turned us out into the Wild. You know of the hardships we suffered, the toil it was simply to survive, and the fear that hovered over all our heads as to an uncertain future." He lowered his voice then, his words taking on a darker, more sorrowful hint. "Many of you will remember," he said. "The day the scouts returned from Moria, and told us of the impossible odds against which our king wished us to march. You will recall the fear, the utter surety of death, and the hopelessness many of us held in our hearts when we realized our time had come. Thror failed his people that day, he betrayed our trust, and were it not for the actions of another none of us would be standing here today, and this home we so cherish would still stand empty, devoid of the life we have brought to its halls."

Northri paused then, letting his word sink in, letting the murmurs that had arisen die down, then he spoke again.

"None of you who were there will have forgotten it. The night before. The eerie sense of impending doom. I still remember the hope that dawned in your faces when I told you there was a place where we might seek shelter, but even then it was a cautious hope. Durin's Folk are a people of honour, and we would not desert our kinsmen. We would not flee as thieves in the night. None of us would have left the field of battle without the blessing of one with the right to give it, and I know I speak for more than myself when I say that the debt this people owes to Thorin Oakenshield is not one we shall soon forget. But, my friends, today we have been called upon to answer that debt."

Kili, who had pinned his eyes on the toes of his boots to avoid looking out at the crowd, lifted them now to stare at the Lord of Nordinbad, not quite daring to believe Northri's words meant what his heart demanded they must. Northri tilted his head to meet his glance but briefly, then turned to address those gathered once more.

"We here in Nordinbad value secrecy above wealth, but we value honour and family above even that. That is the treasure of our home, that is what we hope never to lose. Today, I met a Prince of Durin's Line who embodies both those values, and who came here with news both great and dreadful. Even we, untouched though we are now by these events, shall celebrate the sure knowledge that Smaug the Terrible has fallen, driven at last from the halls he stole, and that Erebor is in the hands of Durin's Folk once more!"

His words were met with a loud roar of approval, and Northri waited again until the noise had died down.

"But more happened at Erebor than the simple slaying of a dragon. The orcs and goblins we marked traveling east did so with a purpose, with a mind for war, and the tale I heard from Prince Kili this morn spoke of a fierce battle fought at the mountain's foot, and of bloodshed and death in abundance. The battle was won, but not without a price, and Thorin Oakenshield, he to whom Nordinbad owes a great debt, was taken captive by the orc lord Bolg." The Lord of Nordinbad paused for breath, but not a word was spoke in the interim, an utter silence having fallen over the crowd. "None here do not know the name. None here do not know what a fate befalls those who come to be in Bolg's keeping. And so I come at last to the reason Prince Kili stands in our midst today. To the request he has asked of us, a request I alone cannot answer, for it is such that you each must weigh it in your own hearts, and decide whether this, here and now, is the moment when we shall at last repay our debt to he who gave us our freedom. Prince Kili intends to enter Gundabad and rescue those who have been taken. The question I am asking you is this; Who here is willing to go with him?"

The hall fell suddenly quiet, so that Kili could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears as his eyes darted back and forth across the sea of faces. These were the people in whose hands the fate of his kin rested, and his chances of success rested upon the knife's edge that was whether they chose to say yes or no. Time seemed to slow and stop as he stood there, the seconds stretching into eternity, suddenly leaping back into motion when a single dwarf stepped out from the ranks and spoke.

"I will go, Lord Northri."

"Bain," Northri nodded to the volunteer, and Kili belatedly recognized him as the captain who had been on duty at the front gate that morning.

"As will I," another strode forward from the fringes of the crowd.

Northri did not even have time to acknowledge the second before a third said "And I."

"My hammer is at your service, Prince Kili!"

"As is my ax!"

"And you'll need my shield if you're taking those two along!"

Someone shouted from the middle of the gathered dwarves, "It is high time someone pushed Bolg out of his pretty little nest!"

And was swiftly answered, "Lord Northri said _rescue_, Hagan, not mayhem!"

Laughter erupted from within the crowd even as more and more stepped forward, shouts carrying back and forth throughout the bustling hall. Overwhelmed, Kili turned to Northri, desperately searching his mind for the appropriate words of thanks. He could find none, however, but his expression must have conveyed the majority of what he was feeling, for Northri smiled and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"There you go, lad," he said. "You have your army. Now go get those companions of yours so we can figure out just how we're going to bring that orc wretch down a few pegs."

**/NASTYLITTEHOBBITSES\\**

After the initial awkwardness of introductions was over they gathered in Northri's war room, a loud, oval chamber with a table of the same shape placed in its middle and high-backed seats set all around. The Lord of Nordinbad had numerous maps spread out across the stone surface, but it was only upon one that all eyes were focussed.

"There are three entrances into Gundabad we know for a fact are unguarded," Northri told them, indicating each on the sketches he had pulled forth from Nordinbad's library. "Paths that lead from beneath Nordinbad across the distance between and directly into Gundabad's heart. I made certain such entrances were sealed when we moved back here, to prevent orcs entering our home, but they will be easy enough to open."

"What of the other entrances?" Kili queried, leaning across the table with his weight on his good arm to see better. Bilbo had insisted on him replacing the sling the moment the hobbit was inside of Nordinbad, and though he had called the Halfling a mother-hen for his worrying he was grateful to no longer feel the painful strain of his abused and torn muscles. "You spoke of using them as well."

"That is where we shall go, to draw their line of sight," Northri explained. "Gorin and I will take the majority of our warriors and storm two of the entrances that are only lightly guarded. They will not expect an attack in their own keep, and with any luck they will panic. If we can draw the majority of their sentries to the south-eastern side of the mountain you will find it easier to break in through the north tunnels."

"If it is panic you are aiming for, then I shall aid with the distraction," Beorn spoke when the Lord of Nordinbad fell silent. "They have already tasted my wrath once, I doubt they shall be in any great hurry to do the same again."

"Nordri and Bain have volunteered to act as your guides through the tunnels," continued Northri, after a respectful nod at the skinchanger. "Bain has been beneath Gundabad before, and has at least a loose sense of direction. I must warn you, though, Prince Kili, that what time we can buy you may be brief. I am willing to aid you in this endeavour, but I will only go so far, and I will not needlessly endanger the lives of my people."

"I would not ask you to," Kili responded quickly. "Truly, what aid you have given is more than enough. I did not expect even this much."

"And I have more left to offer," Northri replied. "My wife would kill me herself if I allowed you to walk into battle as you are, without any form of protection. Go find Runa in the armoury. She will see to it you are suitably attired."

"I'll come with you," Bilbo said, leaping to his feet, barely giving Kili time to repeat his sincere thanks as he made for the door.

Outside what had been quiet halls were now bustling with life in the hectic mayhem that was battle's precursor, and both Kili and Bilbo carefully hugged the walls as they trod the passageways of Nordinbad to avoid being jostled. By comparison the armoury was still and quiet, which meant it did not take Runa at all long to spot them.

"That will not do," she said disapprovingly, eyeing the sling in which Kili's arm rested. "Take that lot off and I'll rebind it for you. We do not need to give the enemy any weakness to aim for."

Kili obediently did as he was told, allowing the Lady of Nordinbad to restrap his shoulder, giving the weakened joint and limb support without the need for the more obvious bandage. With that done Runa set to work on finding him a suitable coat of armour, something he had neglected to pack in his haste to depart from Erebor.

"The chainmail is too heavy for that shoulder to bear," she muttered to herself, moving amongst the stores of war with the air of one fully at home with her surrounds. "And the leather is too light for my liking, but perhaps a combination of the two…"

She settled at last upon a leather jerkin lined with light, metal plates across the torso and back. It was of a decent strength and weight, but not so much as to put pressure on his injury.

"A mithril coat would have served you best," she sighed, still not entirely satisfied as she stepped back to look him up and down from head to toe. "But I fear those are a treasure we here do not possess. Still, if you are as careful as you ought to be this will at least turn a wayward blade." Turning away again she removed a familiar bundle from a nearby rack, offering it to him with a smile. "Your own weapons are better forged than most I have here, though how you will wield them with that arm I do not know."

"I have two hands," Kili offered, accepting his arms and slinging them over his shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of his quiver and bow settle against his back.

"And which do you normally use to fight?" Runa asked perceptively. "Of all those who have volunteered for this mission, you are the one who should not be going, but, if you are anything like your mother, you do not know the meaning of the word 'no'. Now, then." Clapping her hands together Runa turned to face Bilbo, who had been watching the proceedings like a hawk. "What are we to do for you, Master Baggins?"

She ignored the hobbit's protests that Sting and the mail Thorin had gifted him beneath Erebor was more than enough, dragging him away to furnish him with throwing knives and other projectiles small enough to be secreted away in the halfing's coat. Kili took the time to adjust his weapons so that they hung over his left shoulder instead of his right, wondering how many seconds he would lose when he went for the wrong side when drawing his blade. The pair were only gone for a few moments, and by that time Bilbo was ready to leave, muttering under his breath about dwarves and their obsession with over arming themselves. Kili grinned, turning to follow his disgruntled companion, but halted when Runa place a restraining hand on his arm.

"Whatever you see down there," she said solemnly. "Whatever happens, remember that you still have a mother who needs you, who will have nothing should you fall."

Kili nodded. "I will be careful," he promised.

But Runa only smiled.

"No, you will not," she said, and ushered him from the room.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: In which I get to the climax of this story and then realize I have no idea how to write the freakin thing. Bits and pieces of this chapter were already written, but the whole thing was another matter entirely, so you guys get this.**

**I'm not even sorry. Not really.**

**Read, review, and enjoy.**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 16**

Gundabad was the oldest of the dwarf kingdoms in Middle Earth. It was older than the ruins of Belegost in Ered Luin, older than the great delvings of Moria beneath the Misty Mountains, older than the many halls that lay abandoned by the hands that had built them in Ered Mithrin, and older, by many, many years than Erebor. It was beneath Gundabad that Durin the Deathless had first gathered all of Durin's Folk into one people, and there, also, that the seven kingdoms had been founded one by one. It had stood for more than a short glimpse of time's passage, and the ages through which it had lasted were evidenced in the crumbling edges and unsound stone that would have been tended long ago had Durin's Folk still dwelt beneath the mountain. Orcs had no care for such details, however, which made the journey through Gundabad's ancient halls incredibly perilous.

It was not so great a danger for Nordri, Bain, and Kili himself, the former two having lived beneath a mountain for the majority of their lives, and, though the dwellings in Ered Luin lay above ground, Kili had been in the mines often enough to know the dangers. All three of them were also gifted with the underground sight of their race, an added advantage their halfing companion did not have. Gandalf did not either, of course, but the wizard seemed to be managing well enough, so it was beside Bilbo that Kili chose to walk as Bain led them upwards from the depths below.

The air around them was strangely thick as they moved, the eerie silence making every scuffled footfall sound as a thundering drumbeat that would surely give them away, though it also gave them the assurance of being able to hear their enemy coming. But there was no sound besides that they themselves made, and Kili found his thoughts drifting to Northri and Beorn, who were even now fighting on the other side of the mountain, buying them this one chance they could ill afford to waste. All his efforts had led to this point. Every moment where he had pulled on lessons only half heeded in his youth. Every plea and demand he had done his best to wrap in cloths that would make others heed them. Every shred of stubbornness he had drawn on to bring himself this far in defiance to his own limitations, and yet now that he was _here_, now that the journey was over and the road's end in sight he found himself utterly and completely _terrified_.

It had begun in the tunnels the moment they left Nordinbad, the moment it finally sunk in that he had been successful, and that this was all truly happening, and the closer they drew to Gundabad the worse the twisting, writhing creature that was his fear became. Kili had come all this way, against the advice of most of his companions, against his duties, against every shred of common sense and every experience gleaned from the past, all for this moment. For the brief second of time when he would know the truth. When he would learn whether or not he had been right to hope, or wrong to believe. It had been easy not to think of the other possibilities whilst he was on the road. Whilst every thought was turned to speed and the knowledge that what he did not wish to be a reality could become it if he was not swift enough. Now, though, now he had to face that chance, made all the more irrefutable by the fact Northri may never have aided him had he expressed even the slightest doubt Thorin and Fili were alive. He had told the Lord of Nordinbad they had been taken, as though he _knew_, and now he was soon to find out whether those words had been truth or not.

Bain raised his hand before him, and Kili came to a halt, one hand on Bilbo's arm ensuring the hobbit slowed with him.

"What is it?" he asked, voice hushed, but the echoes catching every sound regardless.

"We are just above the first level of delvings," Bain replied quietly. "You may expect to find orcs and goblins about from here on, and wargs also, if we are unlucky. Lord Northri may have been able to draw some away, but Gundabad will not be empty by any means."

"Then we must proceed with the utmost caution," Gandalf spoke up from the rear of their small party. "Where to from here, Captain?"

Bain paused for a moment in thought, then answered, "If Bolg has kept to the conceited pride of his kind we will no doubt find him in the old throne room."

"And where does that lie?" Kili inquired, trying to get his bearings. They were relying on Bain as their guide, but there was a chance they could all be separated long before they reached their goal.

"In the very middle of the mountain," Bain said immediately. "Most pathways lead their eventually, it is simply a matter of avoiding those that lead to other, less desirable locations first."

"How do you know they'll be in the throne room?" He did not need to see Bilbo's face to know the hobbit was frowning. "Isn't a dungeon a more likely bet?"

"Orcs are very rarely engaged in an activity that does not involve some form of violence," Bain told the halfling, sparing not a single detail. "On the rare occasion where they are offered the means of doing so without that violence revolving around each other they are not likely to waste their time by throwing their prisoners in a cage. They have a tireless appetite for blood, Master Hobbit, and they will keep drawing it until its source runs dry."

The halfing's uneasy gulp was audible, and Kili found himself restraining the strong urge to punch Bain in the face. That was his _family_ the captain was speaking of, and whether or not his words were true were irrelevant, because he should have known better than to utter them aloud. Unfortunately, knocking their guide unconscious would be counterproductive, so instead he said, "In that case it would be better if we stopped talking and started moving. Lead on, Bain."

Bain did so with a brief nod, and Kili fell into step behind him again, Bilbo at his side and Nordri and Gandalf bringing up the rear. Traveling in the dark always seemed to take longer than their treks above ground, even when the latter was the longer route, and whilst the dizzying, spiralling pathways they followed might not have been as confusing for him as they no doubt were for his burglar friend, Kili found himself counting the seconds wasted every time a corridor that looked like it should have led straight twisted back and away from their goal. They were already late, with too much time lost in Erebor and on the road, so that every minute spent retracing their steps felt like an eternity. The difference between success and failure.

Between life and death.

He would reflect later that one of them should have been paying more attention than they clearly were, but he was distracted, Bain was focussed on heading them in the right direction, and Nordri was no doubt thinking more of his fast approaching first battle than the dexterity of ancient dwarf stonework. Thus, when a bridge gave out beneath them all, none of them were prepared for it, and they tumbled into the abyss with various shouts of surprise and fear. It was not a straight drop, Mahal be thanked for small mercies, the curve of the walls catching them in their descent and directing them towards a more gentle landing than would otherwise have been possible. But, though the fall was far from a fatal thing, the landing was such that it threatened to bring their foray beneath the mountain to a swift and brutal end.

Kili had managed to control his fall so that he did not land on his injured side, but the impact was bone-jarring regardless, and he rolled onto his stomach before trying to rise. It was then that he heard the growl, soft and deep, with a decided hint of menace. Lifting his head slowly Kili found himself staring directly into the glowing eyes of a great warg, bared teeth glinting even in the shadows. With a yelp he threw himself backwards, out of the reach of those snapping jaws, and in that moment realized that the room around him was a writhing, snarling, vicious death trap.

They were in a warg pit, and they had just woken every last one of its inhabitants.

There wasn't time to draw his sword in the confined space, so he fended off the first warg that came bounding towards him with a solid boot to the snout. It barely slowed the crazed beast down, the entire pack working itself into a slathering frenzy around him. Panic mounting, Kili rolled out of reach of teeth sharp enough to tear him to shreds and called out for the only one who may be able to free them from this deadly prison.

"Gandalf!"

His response came in a familiar, blinding flash of light, a wind that burst forth from nowhere ripping through the cavern with a savage howl. Momentarily confused, the wargs gave ground with yelps of distress as the light scorched their eyes, and Kili took the moment to scrabble to his feet even as Gandalf shouted an all too familiar command.

"Run!" he ordered. "_Run_!"

Kili did not question that command, he merely acted on it, flying forward, diving through the mass of bodies, trying to keep a sense of direction in the whirling chaos around him. One of the beasts swung about as he passed it, knocking him to the ground through the sheer force of the impact, but he turned the fall into a roll and gained his feet before the teeth snapping at his heels could find a home in his flesh. His eyes fixed themselves upon a wide crevice in the wall and his mind named it salvation as he darted across the seeming mile that stood between him and it, twisting his body at the last second and thanking Mahal for the fact he was thin for a dwarf as he barely made it through the space. He lost his balance as the walls released him, his legs sliding out from beneath him to leave him sitting, startled and breathless, on the cold stone, staring up at the raging maw of the warg who had been set upon consuming him for dinner. The huge beast couldn't hope to fit through the gap he had fled through, but Kili chose not to stay within its line of sight regardless, climbing quickly to his feet and slowly backing his way along the tunnel until it rounded a corner.

There were no accidents to be found in a dwarf kingdom, and so he was not overly surprised to find a set of stairs stretching before him, leading upwards into the unknown. He hesitated at their foot, aware that none of his companions had followed the same route of escape as he, and equally aware that they may not have even escaped at all. He almost turned around. He almost went back, even knowing there was little he could do no matter what had happened to his fellows, but as he turned a blood curdling scream echoed all around him. The noise was faint, barely audible at all, yet it sliced through him like an ice-cold dagger to the heart regardless, and Kili froze in place. Silence enshrouded him, broken only by the distant snarling and growling he had just escaped, and he waited, heart pounding in his chest, until that terrible sound of abstract terror and arrant pain seared a path across his ears again.

Thought abandoned him them. Of his companions. Of himself. Of danger, of orcs, of _anything_. Because he knew. He _knew_ that voice and that knowledge drove him up the stairs at a speed that risked him falling and breaking his neck. He did not care for the danger, though. It meant nothing. It _was_ nothing alongside the dread inducing knowledge that that scream – that horrifying, _horrifying_ sound of tortured suffering – had come from his _brother_. The third cry almost broke him, a wail cut suddenly short, and he bit back a sob of his own as he pounded up the last of the steps and almost hurtled to his death over the side of an unexpected drop.

He pulled himself back just in time, breathing wildly, heartbeat a throbbing pound in his ears, and clung to the wall as he tried to anchor himself, eyes darting hither and thither to take in his new surroundings. He was not in the throne room Bain had guessed would be their goal, but instead standing upon a thin ledge that ran around the edge of a cavernous hall in a complete circuit. An archer's perch, where guardsmen could lurk unseen by those who went about their business below. The room it circled was a large one, though only the very middle of it consisted of space for movement, the rest filled by a series of steps that climbed higher and higher until they reached the cavern's walls. Seats, his mind recognized slowly, the cruel truth dawning upon him piece by piece.

This was an arena, and Bolg was putting on a show.

He was too high to make out a great deal, the light cast by the torches below throwing confusing shadows amidst the raucous crowd, but he could see enough. He could Bolg striding back and forth before his enraptured audience, a snarling warg trailing at his heels. He could see blood, a darker stain on stone that had probably borne witness to the suffering of many others, and he could see Fili. He could _see_ Fili, lying heartbreakingly still, a limp and ragged puppet with his strings not cut but _torn_, cast on the floor like a discarded toy. The sight froze him in place, his fear a living, monstrous creature inside of him, and he did not move, did not even _breathe_ until Bolg's harsh voice suddenly sounded over the sickening enthusiasm of the crowd.

"Weak!" was the orc's condemning pronouncement. "Behold the unbreakable Line of Durin, in ruins at our feet!"

Harsh laughter and cruel cheers answered him, and Kili did not feel fear in that moment, he felt rage.

Bolg turned, away from the crowd, away from Fili, and spoke to someone Kili could not see.

"I do believe," he said, voice a menacing hiss. "That this one has had enough."

He did not whirl back to his prey, instead executing a slow turn that betrayed the malice of his intent, and striding with slow, measured steps across the space between. He raised his foot, placing it across Fili's neck, then lifted his head to look at his enraptured audience.

"How much do you think it would take?" he asked. "To _snap_ this?"

He was met with a roar of approval, a dozen suggestions on exactly how to do it, and Kili realized, horror-struck, that he actually _meant_ to. Bolg was going to kill his brother before his very eyes, and Kili… Kili couldn't let it happen. His hands moved of their own accord, all but tearing his bow from his back and seizing an arrow in his hand. He could not hope to draw the string back with his dominant arm, he had not the strength, but maybe… He passed the weapon into his right hand, feeling the foreign weight of the arrow in his left, and, crouching on the lip of the ledge, he gritted his teeth and raised his bow. The pain in his shoulder was an instant response, but Runa had bound the limb well, and, though it shook like a leaf in the wind, his arm held. With fumbling fingers he fitted the arrow to the string with his unpractised left hand, and slowly, carefully, he drew it back. He could not hope to hit a small target at a great distance, not with his arm so unsteady, but he did not need to. All he needed to do was make Bolg _stop_.

The shaft flew, carving a path through the air with a sharp whistle, and stuck harmlessly in Bolg's shoulder armour, a good few inches above where Kili had been aiming. It was enough, though. Enough to turn Bolg's attention away from Fili, and solely onto himself. Kili registered little more than the orc's turning head stumbling back from the edge as his shoulder vehemently protested the strain placed upon it, his head spinning as he clutched the wall for balance. The great din that had broken out beneath him sounded far off and distant as he hugged his arm to his chest and tried to remember how to breathe, and it was not until cruel hands gripped him and hauled him away from the wall that he became aware of his surroundings again. By then it was too late to tear himself free from the hold his captors had seized upon him, and he had no choice but to follow along as they dragged him towards the stairs and the doom that awaited below.

**/NASTLYLITTLEHOBBITES\\**

There were thoughts one clung to in the darkness. Comforts, true or empty, that were the only defense one had. Thorin had been prepared to die upon the battlefield, had expected it, even. He had known what it was he marched into when he left the safety of Erebor, or he had thought he knew. Death had seemed a surety, with so many falling all around him, and yet the arrows that had claimed the life of so many of his comrades had not strayed near where he fought, and the cleaving blades that stole life so readily had not come close to him after Azog fell. He had been too blind to realize what that meant until it was too late. When Bolg's warg pack had formed a tight circle around them, and he had recognized his enemy's intent even as he could do nothing to stop it.

All orcs were brutal creatures by nature, but it was not their love for bloodshed or their desire for violence that made Azog and Bolg so dangerous, it was their intelligence. Their ability to think beyond the basic restrictions of most of their kind. Their ability to understand others, at least insofar as they needed to to control them, to cause them pain. Thorin had been powerless to struggle against the captors who seized and bound him, not because of his own injuries, though they would doubtlessly have hampered his efforts, but because of the blade Bolg had pressed to his nephew's throat, still stained by the blood of those who had fallen at its mercy. He had known what fate awaited them should he surrender, he had _known_ that death may well be the better alternative, but… but he had not been able to do it. He had not been able to watch another of his kin slaughtered before his eyes.

He had been a fool to think it would not come to that regardless.

They were not the first of Durin's line to fall into Bolg's hands. That misfortune had fallen upon Frerin, and Thorin could still scarcely bear to think of all that had been left of his younger brother when Bolg's work was done. If Azog's claim was true, his father had shared the same fate, another of Durin's Line broken at the hands of those who had sworn to destroy the bloodline itself. But they had been taken alone, Frerin and Thrain. None of their family had been with them, and that… that had been a mercy, for Bolg knew the value dwarves placed upon their kin, and knew also that torture was not a thing reserved entirely for the realm of the physical. Fili had had a hand in Azog's death, but it had been Thorin who threw the final blow, and Thorin who took his arm at Moria's gate. And so it was Thorin Bolg bound in chains and forced to _watch _as his nephew and heir became the torture master's prey.

There were thoughts one clung to in the darkness, and Thorin's had been of Kili. Of that bright, bright soul he had so terribly wronged in their last days together, and the small mercy that was his youngest nephew being spared this. It was the only comfort to be found in the harsh reality of the present, and it was a terrible, despair-inducing thing to watch Bolg's lieutenants drag an all too familiar figure across the floor to throw at their cruel master's feet. Kili almost hit the ground face first, only just managing to catch himself with one hand, his other arm held tightly against his chest. Thorin noticed with mounting alarm that his youngest nephew seemed scarcely aware of what was happening, eyes focused on his brother's still and bloody form, the horror in his eyes absolute.

Jerking against the chains holding him in place, Thorin voiced a growl around the filthy rag his captors had used to silence him, earning himself a brief glance from Bolg before the orc captain reached down and snared his clawed fingers in Kili's hair. With a vicious jerk he hauled the young dwarf back from where he was trying to crawl towards his brother, forcing him onto his knees, and ripping something from the dark locks with his other hand. Kili's eyes lifted with the forced gesture, focusing suddenly on Thorin. The horror of the moment before was gone now, he noted, replaced, not by fear, but a steely, grim determination that had him wondering what foolishness his nephew planned on attempting this time.

"This is a pretty bauble," Bolg spoke coldly, flipping something silver back and forth between his fingers, then tossing it carelessly at Thorin's feet. The bound dwarf recognized it instantly as his youngest nephew's hair clasp, though he was almost certain Bolg's next words did not pertain to the piece of silver. "Is it yours, Oakenshield?"

Thorin did not answer, he _could_ not, even as he marked a flash of something dark and unwelcome in Kili's eyes. He did not know what that look meant, but knew his own gaze was probably just as dark. He was angry, not only at Bolg, but Kili as well, and it was an anger that sprung forth from fear. What was the foolish boy _doing_ here? Alone, without aid, in the midst of certain death. He was supposed to be safe. The one thing Thorin had managed to do right after Erebor was reclaimed, but instead… Instead he was here, where they would all die together, but not before Bolg had had his full of revenge.

"But of course it is," Bolg continued, voice a snarl, even as he tightened his hold on his newest captive, forcing Kili's head back as he grasped the young dwarf's chin, his nails digging into soft flesh. "There can be no mistaking this one's bloodlines, nor the reckless foolishness that brought him here alone."

Kili did not respond to the orc's words, rigidly still, holding himself tensed in a way that did not bode well. Thorin tried to shake his head, tried to catch Kili's eyes and silently beg him not to provoke the vicious creature holding him in place, but his nephew was no longer looking at him, his baleful stare focused instead with unflinching steadiness upon his captor.

"This one is younger," the orc spoke again, a barely hidden excitement in his words, a wicked sense of triumph. "I shall enjoy playing with you."

It was in that moment that Kili acted, and blood was spilt across already stained stone.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Action is honestly not my forte, so I hope this chapter is a passable effort. The whole thing was written with Bastille's 'Things We Lost In the Fire' on repeat just because the bridge in that song is all kinds of epic.**

**I'd also like to thank everybody for the support so far, though I gotta say I should clearly be using more cliffhangers. 16 reviews on one chapter? That's not bad. Not bad at all. Thanks guys. ;-)**

**Read, review, and enjoy!  
**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**P.S. This is another midnight chapter. I'll come back and look at it tomorrow and probably find a hundred errors. Be warned.**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 17**

Bilbo's first instinct when they landed in the pit of death was to put on his Ring. The tiny golden trinket had saved his life enough times in the past for this to be an entirely sensible course of action, though, of course, being invisible did very little protect him from the writhing, churning mass of over excited wargs who seemed to think a veritable feast had just fallen headfirst into their home. Crouched on all fours, he scrabbled desperately about the stone floor, trying not to think of the unnamable substances that clung to his hands and knees as he did so, and doing his fervent best not to get trodden on. Kili's shout gave him a direction to follow in the mayhem, at least, for, if ever there had been a dwarf with a penchant for getting into potentially fatal situations, it was that one. Although, taking into considering his own close experiences with the young archer's kinsmen, Bilbo might have to expand that thought to include all his family as well.

If nothing else, the Heirs of Durin seemed an irresistible lure for all the worst kinds of trouble.

Reaching the young prince's side was a task much more easily attempted than achieved, however, and in the chaos that followed Gandalf's customary flare of the dramatic Bilbo lost all sense of direction, and somehow found himself tumbling head over heels down some sort of shoot that dropped him unceremoniously onto the cold, stone floor a level below. His first thought then was to climb straight back up again, for he had no desire to be lost down in these dark corridors for the rest of his life, or until one of his companions came to find him, but one look at his means of descent told him there was no way he was going to be able to climb _up_ it, so, resigned, he turned away, giving the four different pathways that now opened up before him a scrutinizing stare. Dwarf kingdoms, he had decided long ago, were built to confuse, and so it was no surprise that none of the four corridors sprang out at him at once as the obvious and wisest choice.

Unlike that of other members of the Company, however, Bilbo's luck had held for the duration of this quest, and so he trusted it to save him again as he picked a path at random and hurried along its length. Though he could not see it clearly, he could feel the ground sloping upwards beneath his feet, and took this to mean he had chosen correctly. Quickening his pace for fear he should be left behind – _again_ – he slipped around the corner at the tunnel's end and abruptly collided with Nordri. The young dwarf gave a startled yelp, backpedaling rapidly as he tried to identify what had crashed into him, and Bilbo hurriedly slipped his ring off and made as though he had just stepped around the corner.

"Master Baggins!" Relief flooding his voice, the blond dwarf gave him what he assumed was a scrutinizing glance, though it was hard to tell in the half-light. "Are you unharmed?"

"By some miracle." He nodded, adding urgently, "Have you seen any of the others?"

"No." It was at that point that Bilbo realized his companion sounded more shaken than their simple collision warranted. "But I heard…"

He did not need to go further, because Bilbo heard it himself a moment later. A sound of pain and anguish such as he had never heard before, and never wanted to again. The acoustic quality of the stone around them made the noise resonate, echoed a hundred times, its horror multiplied tenfold, before finally fading away and leaving them in silence.

"I think," he said, his own voice trembling now a little. "We may be quite close."

"But do we go on?" Nordri inquired anxiously. "Without Gandalf?"

There was something altogether absurd about a dwarf asking _him _for advice, but where the Company had considered him far too genteel to be traipsing about the wild, Nordri, who had never left his home, seemed to believe Bilbo an authority on the world and adventures in general. It was rather pleasant not having to risk life and limb to earn a dwarf's respect, but he didn't really have the time to appreciate the novelty right now. Not with that awful sound echoing round them both yet again.

"I think we must," he decided at last, instinctively setting his shoulders and lifting his chin. "We've come this far, and if Kili is anywhere nearby he will have followed that… well, _that_."

"We may be able to rejoin the others," Nordri agreed, sounding relieved. "Lead on, then, Master Baggins."

Bilbo did so, treading with a lot more caution now that he could not so readily use the Ring, Nordri close enough on his heels as to almost be treading on them. There were no more cries to ensure they were heading in the right direction, but the corridor continued to climb steadily until it finally rounded a corner and gave way to a larger chamber. Bilbo stopped then, staring in dismay at the sight that now unfolded before him. There were torches ahead, lit and ready to cast betraying shadows, but it was not the light that made him pause and debate turning back. No, light would have been a welcome reprieve at this point, had it not come with a pack of orcs and goblins attached.

The noise emanating from the chamber before him was almost deafening, but Bilbo did not turn back, for the last time he had heard such a ruckus had been back in Goblin Town as his friends were dragged away and he was overlooked and left behind. It was that knowledge that pulled him onwards, that bid him motion for Nordri to stay in the tunnel as he himself slipped beneath the stone arch and dared to tread the narrow corridor that parted the masses until he could see beyond them, to what had so captured their fancy. Bain's words came flooding back to him the moment he realized exactly what it was he had stumbled into, the cold knowledge that the captain had not been exaggerating sinking into his very bones. This was… This was… It was _indescribable_, a sight he wished he had never seen, but one he doubted he would ever be able to banish from his memory. The battlefield outside Erebor had been bad enough, a nightmare that had haunted him for many nights afterwards, but this was worse somehow.

Worse because this was not a fight for survival such as that had been, this was _sport_.

He moved forward to the edge of the protective shadows before he was even quite aware of what he was doing, just knowing that _something_ had to be done. He watched, senses numbed and thoughts still scattered, as Bolg staggered back, Fili forgotten as he wrenched a barbed arrow from his armor. He saw, dread carving itself a hollow in his stomach, the goblins that swarmed up the walls with the skill only their kind possessed for mounting sheer rock. He witnessed them dragging a figure that could be none other than Kili down the stairs and passing the young dwarf into the charge of Bolg's followers, who in turn delivered their captive to their master. He waited through it all, somehow still wildly hoping that Gandalf would appear to save the day yet again, or even some of the other dwarves, but as Bolg taunted Thorin and Kili alike it slowly dawned upon the hobbit that no one else was coming.

And then Kili did something very, very _stupid_.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Kili barely heard the exchange Bolg had with his uncle, despite the fact he was fairly certain it revolved largely around himself. The words were inaudible to him, drowned out by the roar in his ears that had only grown louder when he set eyes on his brother at a distance close enough to assess those of his injuries that were visible, and they were many. The rage he had felt on the wall had not abated with his pain and capture, if anything it had multiplied, lurking now as a rampaging inferno threatening to burn him from the inside out. He had never felt such a loathing as he did for the orc holding him upright by his hair, and the desire to drive cold steel through the foul creature's heart was too great a temptation to resist.

He could not reach Bolg's heart from on his knees, but what he could reach was the knife hanging off the orc's belt, and Bolg's attention elsewhere it was a simple thing to slip the knife free and then drive it with all the force he could muster through the gap in the orc captain's armor. The force with which he drove the jagged instrument through flesh was enough to make the orc captain stagger back, his hold on Kili lost, granting him a short reprieve. He had but a moment, then, a second where surprise was on his side, and he used it to swing about, wrenching his own sword from where Bolg's lieutenants had so carelessly tossed his weapons, and turning back in time to face whatever retribution Bolg was ready to dish out. He had forgotten in his rage the warg that had been trailing at the orc's heels, the same warg that was surely responsible for at least a small portion of his brother's injuries, and which now tried to inflict the same fate upon him.

It came at him with a vicious snarl, leaping with every intent of tearing him to shreds. He managed to raise his sword just in time, the steel catching between the warg's teeth, so that Kili crashed to the floor on his back, both hands braced against the weapon in a desperate attempt to fend off all but certain death. His shoulder was positively screaming at him now, his vision whiting out around the edges, and it was with the rare strength brought on by death's imminent approach that Kili slammed his knee into the beast's chin. The warg's head jerked up away from the impact, Kili's blade sliding free of the teeth that had enclosed it, and the archer rolled swiftly out from beneath its feet only to have his sword kicked from his hand as he made it to his knees.

He wavered then, over balanced, and would have fallen on his back had strong fingers not closed about his throat and lifted him bodily off the floor. It was his confrontation with Azog all over again, nothing but air beneath his feet, legs kicking empty space, one hand clawing at Bolg's arm with no hope of loosening his hold. But he did not have a dagger to drive through his captor's hand this time, and Bolg had absolutely no intention of letting him go.

"Perhaps," the orc growled, anger now residing in every harsh syllable as he tightened his hold until Kili wasn't just struggling to breathe, he was _choking_. "It is _your_ neck I should break."

Kili was weakening, he could already feel consciousness slipping away from him, the world growing smaller and smaller as his lungs begged for a reprieve and his body shut down when none was offered. He was on the verge of the abyss when Bolg jerked suddenly, opening his hand and letting Kili fall back to the floor. The young dwarf landed on his side and lay there gasping, each breath a desperate wheeze, even as his eyes struggled to focus on the small barb Bolg tore from his arm with a snarl. It was akin to an arrow, but far too small to have been fired from a regular bow, and with a new fear rising within him Kili turned in the direction of the entrance to see Nordri standing squarely beneath the stone arch, already moving to reload his crossbow, though it would do him little good against the small army now rising in anger at the wound inflicted upon their leader.

"Nordri," the name escaped him as a croak, but he mustered strength enough to make his next words a shout. "Go, Nordri! Run!"

The blond dwarf didn't question his order, which was a first, he reflected, even as he watched Northri's grandson bolt from the room, a small troop of goblins flying in pursuit. Bolg, for his part, ignored Nordri's escape, along with the majority of his audience, turning instead to deliver a savage kick to Kili's midsection that earned him a rousing applause.

"Did you think you could escape, you _fool_?" he demanded, driving his spiked boot into Kili's torso a second time. Biting back a cry of pain Kili rolled away, trying to put enough distance between himself and Bolg to buy himself the time he needed to regain his feet. "This is _my_ domain, dwarf! _My_ kingdom. There is no escape from these walls. No escape from the nightmare that is now yours. You should never have come here. There is no rescue from Gundabad. There is only death, and the torment that precedes it. And yours…" Reaching down, Bolg seized his hair again, hauling him upright by the same method he had used before so he could snarl his last words right in Kili's face. "Yours shall be a slow one."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

_Kili, you reckless, little fool…_

Thorin had already thrown himself against the chains binding him enough times to know he could not break them. The skin on his wrists had been rubbed raw to the point his hands were now slick with blood during his efforts to free himself when Bolg had first thrown Fili into that ring and then unleashed a _warg_ on the lad, but that did not stop him from trying again as he watched his youngest nephew slowly being throttled for the second time. But he could not free himself, he was helpless, _powerless_, and that was an agony that could not be described, another promise he could not keep, and for the breaking of which he silently begged forgiveness from his absent sister.

_I am sorry, Dis. I could not protect them_.

He did not know who Nordri was, nor what business he had firing on Bolg, but he sent silent gratitude after Kili's fleeing rescuer for buying him the time to…

_To what_?

He demanded of himself, and knew he did not have an answer. There was nothing he could do. Nothing that he had not tried to stop this. If only Kili had not come. If only he had realized earlier Bolg's purpose. If only he had managed to orchestrate a successful escape before their captor had brought them here. But he had tried once, and Fili had suffered for that attempt. Suffered dearly.

_And he is still suffering now_.

Fingers touched the knot at the back of his head, loosening the gag, and Thorin almost started out of his skin, lurching as far away from his unseen assailant as the chains would allow even as the dirty rag that had been used to silence him fell away. He swung his head on his shoulders, eyes searcing wildly for the source of the phantom touch, but could still see nothing.

"It's me!" a voice hissed near his ear, and Thorin froze in absolute disbelief.

_It could not be…_

"Bilbo?"

"Yes!"

But why? Why would Bilbo be _here_? What possible reason…

"Now, hold steady. Sting might be sharp, but it's not made for cutting through chains. I'm going to have to lever these."

Thorin's eyes flitted back to the arena floor, where Bolg was taking his anger out on a helpless Kili as his youngest nephew did his best to roll out of range of the orc's petty vengeance.

"Master Baggins…"

"I know, I know. I'm hurrying!"

There was a sharp snap, and the chain on his right hand came away from the floor, the shackle and links still hanging from his arm. Thorin quickly twisted the half-numb limb, gathering the chain in his hand as the only weapon he was likely to have available to him.

"Here." Bilbo proved that assumption wrong by shoving a knife into his hands. It was little more than a dagger, but it was far better than nothing. "Hold still."

He did so, even though there was a part of him that wanted to leap into the fray right now, remaining shackle be damned. Bolg had Kili on his knees again, and was snarling something in his nephew's face, undaunted by the raw, unbridled hatred in Kili's eyes. And that was a foreign thing Thorin had never wanted to see on his nephew's face, though he could well understand where it had sprung from. The last chain fell away with a distinctive clank, and Thorin surged to his feet, only to almost hit the floor again as his weakened limbs betrayed him.

"Steady!" Bilbo chided, unseen hands holding him in place. "I need at least one of you on your feet if this is going to work."

"You have a plan, then?" That was a relief, for Thorin had nothing. No way of getting them all out of here alive. He was barely keeping himself upright, too many days with nothing but that foul orc brew for sustenance taking its toll.

"Well, not really." And there went that hope. "But I'm sure Gandalf will show up eventually."

And in the meantime, Bolg would torture Kili as surely as he had Fili, unless Thorin did something that no one, not even himself, would deem wise. But the Line of Durin had never made any claim to great wisdom, and so, shrugging off the hobbit's persistent hold, Thorin took a step forward.

"Bolg!"

All eyes in the room instantly turned away from the spectacle in the arena to Thorin's own corner of the room, a ripple of shock surging through the crowd at the sudden realization their prize prisoner was standing free, if a little unsteadily, in their midst. Thorin ignored those lurking on the fringes, however, keeping his eyes only on Bolg. The orc captain had full control of his troop, and not one of those in the room would move without his say so. Right now the torture master was understandably confused, his eyes drifting from the broken chains to Thorin in a quick glance that gave away what he was trying not to show.

"What do you plan to do, Oakenshield?" he demanded, drawing forth the selfsame dagger Kili had used to impale him and holding it to the young dwarf's neck in exact same way as he had held Fili back on the battlefield, where Thorin had made his first mistake. He could not afford to make another now. "You will not end my life with that needle in your hands. In fact you would die before you took a step forward. Or _they_ would."

"You will not touch either of them again." He took a single stride forward to press his point, silently thanking Mahal for the fact it did not end with him flat on his face. Bolg had not touched him after taking him captive, but Thorin had not gone unwounded onto the battlefield, and those wounds had not been tended in any but the loosest sense.

Bolg laughed outright at his gesture of defiance, still confident he was in control. "Are you going to make me? I already told you, Thorin Oakenshield, you are in my lands now, and there is no way out."

His words this time were punctuated by a sharp and sudden yelp of pain, and Thorin watched, unsurprised, as Bolg's favored pet fell to the ground, a knife having been slammed through its forehead directly between the eyes.

_And Master Baggins proves his worth once more._

"Maybe you should check your gates more often, then," Bilbo said blandly, suddenly visible, and himself the center of attention as the confusion and unease in the air around them began to grow. "If it is this easy to walk in, I imagine it is just as easy to walk out again."

"Seize him!"

Bolg was more than angry now, he was enraged, and even as his minions hastened to obey him the orc captain turned away from the halfling, away from Thorin, away from Kili, whom he tossed back to the floor with a violent surge of his arm, and to the one person who had absolutely no means of defending himself. Fili still had not moved, and the look on Bolg's face plainly spelled out his intention of making sure Thorin's heir never moved again. Kili scrambled to his feet, wavering, unsteady, and surely knowing he could not hope to cross the distance in time, no more than Thorin, darting forward now as a raged denial escaped his lips, could.

But Kili was not the fool Bolg had believed him to be, nor even as reckless as Thorin had thought him, for he had not come alone.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

There was no race in Middle Earth that had any love for orcs and their ilk. Not even the orcs themselves could stand one another, their violence turned as often on each other as it was upon their enemies. They were an abomination, something once good twisted to evil and irredeemable now in their wicked nature, a festering wound that had been left too long to heal. Dwarves, elves, and men alike had good reason to hate them and their kind. All had suffered pain at their hands. Had lost lands, livelihoods, and loved ones. But no wrongs committed against those three peoples were so great as those Azog and his wretched offspring had perpetrated against the skinchangers. It was not only their lands that had been stolen, nor was it their livelihoods, nor even their loved ones. Azog and Bolg had destroyed the skinchangers themselves, an entire people all but wiped out, and made to suffer every agony possible before the end came. The hatred Beorn felt against them and their kind was an entity onto itself, and there was no being on Middle Earth, no creature, no elf, man, or even dwarf who he would not have aided when they asked his help in destroying his most abhorred enemy.

Kili had not asked, but Gandalf had, and Beorn had been unable to refuse what was not so much a request for aid as an opportunity to exact a vengeance long awaited.

The opposition Northri's forces might have encountered at the main gate had already been slimmed by the battle at Erebor, and further still by their belief they were safe here, in their home. But when they saw Beorn bearing down upon them at the head of a small army of dwarves, who had wisely and warily chosen to keep their distance from the great, black bear in their midst, most of the enemy ran screaming. He had clearly left a deeply engraved memory upon them at their last encounter, and it was an image he meant to cement irremovably upon their kind now. Any who did not move out of his path were crushed or torn asunder, the skinchanger effortlessly carving a path for his allies to follow.

By Northri's decree those taking part in the battle on this side of the mountain were not supposed to venture too far within Gundabad, providing only a distraction, and not risking a true battle. It was, Beorn knew, a sign that the Lord of Nordinbad was as much a dwarf as his kin elsewhere in Middle Earth, save that the treasure he hoarded was his people, as opposed to actual gold. Bolg was not lurking amongst those on guard duty, so Beorn did not stop in the first halls, charging onwards, deeper and deeper into the mountain. Those behind him hesitated, briefly indecisive, then followed, sweeping through Gundabad at a speed that outright defied the crumbling architecture around them.

He may not have been a dwarf, but Beorn had been born beneath the mountains before Azog claimed them for his own, and where the dwarves relied on their faltering knowledge of their ancient halls Beorn followed his senses, honed and trained to follow a trail where no other could find one, and to pick out one scent amongst many. This was a hunt to the skinchanger, a wound that had stood open too long, and which he intended to close on this day. His fallen kin would know justice, and Bolg would know death.

Beorn sped through Gunadbad's aging corridors with the dwarves at his back, all who did not fall to his teeth and claws claimed instead by the blades of those who followed. They slew as many as they came across, and still there was no sign of Bolg, nor of the small army that had surely survived alongside their leader. The resistance they had met thus far was a trivial thing, and Beorn pressed onwards with even greater haste, determined that Bolg should not escape the sentence that awaited him. The wretch would not flee his reckoning a second time.

They happened across Bain not long after Beorn hurled three wargs over the edge into the abyss with a single swipe, the captain wounded, though not badly, and gabbling explanations when pressed by his lord as to the whereabouts of the rest of his party. Beorn did not wait to hear the dwarf's answer, the scent of his enemy clear enough he could have followed it had he only half the skill he possessed. He left Northri and his men well behind him, and almost ran down the young dwarf he encountered fleeing in the tunnels, easily decimating the squabbling pack of goblins that had been at the dwarf's heels. They were nothing more than irritants to him now, an obstacle, and Beorn would not be obstructed. He burst into the larger chamber with a roar that shook it to its very foundations, and did not give his enemy a chance to do more than stare in horror as he leapt over the heads of those between he and his prey.

Azog had not dared to challenge him.

Bolg was not given a choice.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: I have such seriously mixed feelings about this chapter. On the one hand, we're getting closer and closer to my pre-written material, which means I'm not going to be writing these things quite so much from scratch for a little while. On the other, all the action in here almost killed me. This is the sixth or seventh draft of Chapter 18, and I am so over it at this point that I figured I'd better post it before I started banging my head on my desk. With that said, I apologize in advance. Sorry. Just... sorry.**

**Read, review, and enjoy.**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 18**

Grark was old for a goblin. 'Long-lived' his fellows called him, though less than half of them actually knew what that word meant, and half the half that thought they knew didn't really. Oh, he did not possess the near immortal years of his greater cousins, the orcs, but he had seen things. Knew things. _Read_ things, which was a lot more than you could say for most of his squabbling brethren. Grark was the goblin who went through the belongings of those unfortunate enough to rest upon the Goblin King's doorstep and took, not swords or shiny trinkets, but books and maps and the knowledge contained inside them. Grark was the goblin who watched the others chase thirteen dwarves and a wizard through a kingdom only so long as they remained in his line of sight, then turned his gaze back to his latest acquisition, uninterested in the outcome of the fight. Grark was the goblin who hung back, suspicious, when Azog the Defiler returned to Gundabad and summoned a meeting for the first time in too many years to bother counting. Grark was the goblin who sat down and cited his age as reason enough not to join in the rushed march beneath the mountains to the wastelands north of The Lonely Mountain, and felt no surprise when Bolg returned without his father, defeated despite the prisoners he prized so greatly, and in a fearful rage.

Truthfully speaking, he would have preferred it had Bolg not come back at all.

Grark was wise enough not to say so aloud, however, and wise enough also to keep to his high perches as the mighty bear rampaged through Gundabad's halls. Instead he simply watched, beady eyes bright, as the skinchanger raced onwards and inwards, a motley bunch of armed dwarves at his heels, all armed to the teeth. Bolg was in for a surprise, and Grark felt no regret over not sounding warning when he may well be the only one who had seen the beast and still held onto his life. Bolg had brought this down upon himself, and Grark would say nothing more than good riddance once he was dead. But, whilst the torture master's death would be reason for celebration for the old goblin, Grark was not at all pleased by the thought of dwarves attempting a return to the mountain. Those wretched, burrowing creatures clearly thought that one mountain reclaimed meant all others were open to them, but Gundabad was a second home to the goblins of the Misty Mountains, and a stronghold for all of their ilk, and Grark was not quite so ready to surrender this part of a greater kingdom he may yet wheedle his way into ruling.

With such thoughts in mind the aged goblin waited until all intruders had passed him by, then crawled his way down from the ledge on which he had taken refuge, leaping from rock to rock with an agility that belied his age as he made his way down past the upper levels into the depths. The march from Gundabad had been committed to with great haste, and carried out with the same. Those taking part had needed to travel with speed, racing through underground corridors at a great pace for days on end. That was why Azog had chosen to rely on numbers over brute strength, trusting that a force superior in size would grant him an easy victory, and leaving behind those that would have slowed him down. It was for this reason that the war trolls of Gundabad still resided beneath the mountain's feet, and the cause of the full warg pens, only Bolg's favored pack taken on the journey to battle.

Most goblins would not have known what to do with this knowledge. But Grark was old, old and cunning, and he loped up to the first goblin he found on the lower levels, passing on words that would soon spread like wildfire through the depths.

"The enemy is here," he hissed. "The enemy is here! Cut the ropes! Let them loose! Wake them up! Open the doors!"

Onwards he went, speaking the same message to all he came across, until the chant could be heard throughout Gundabad's lower halls.

"The enemy is here!" the cry sounded. "The enemy is here!"

"Cut the ropes!"

"Let them loose!"

"Wake them up!"

"Open the doors!"

And the final line, that which Grark had not spoken, but which brought a feral smile to his wizened face regardless.

"_Kill_ the dwarves!"

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Lives could change in a split second. An instant was all it took. A moment of inattention. One wrong step, or a dozen leading to a single ending. Fate was a fickle thing, ever ready to deliver death where it was least expected, and life where life had no right to flourish. Thorin knew he should not have survived the war. After all he had done, how far he had fallen, death should have been his sentence. The same penalty he had thought to apply to his younger nephew, and would have, had others not stood in the way. He had been granted a reprieve where none was earned, and the price for that, the sum forfeit in repayment for every breath he drew, was laid out before him now in the terrible sight of Bolg standing with his arms raised above his head, the tip of his blade hovering directly over Fili's heart. Kili was already screaming his brother's name, his voice desolate and filled with horror, but his cry, piercing as it was, was drowned out completely by a mighty roar that had not been heard beneath mountain stone for eons.

Fate could change in an instant, and it turned now against Bolg and his ilk, offering the Line of Durin luck it had not seen for many a long year. The orc captain turned, but he had no hope of escaping, nor of directing his blade in a way that might wound his assailant. Beorn struck the torture master with all the force of a mountain avalanche, the snap of bone an audible thing as his momentum carried both he and his chosen prey to the ground. Bolg's cry of outrage ended when his neck broke before he had even hit the floor, and Beorn turned to face the horrified onlookers as he let out another savage roar. The crowd scattered, fleeing for the nearest exit, though some dared to stay on the ledge above, firing on the skinchanger from the comparative safety of the height. This only antagonized the mighty bear more, and, with a snarl of rage, he dove up the steps and into the enemy's midst.

All this took only seconds, a death far swifter and cleaner than Bolg deserved, and Kili had not wasted a single portion of that time. Thorin's youngest nephew was already kneeling by his brother's side, desperately trying to wake the unconscious dwarf whilst Bilbo, face drawn and pale, cut away the cloth obstructing any view of the worst injury Fili had sustained during their captivity; The warg bite that had torn flesh and crushed bone as the cursed creature used its hold on the young dwarf's leg to swing him about like a dog's plaything, before dropping him on the ground like a piece of rejected meat. Thorin could still hear his nephew's screams, an echo in the back of his mind that would not soon fade, and so he knew what he would see when he reached them.

That did not make him any more prepared for the sight.

The limb had been all but mutilated, deep tears that ran right to fractured bone still leeching blood, the precious, crimson fluid masking the damage at the same time as it announced its severity. Kili's gaze had already taken in the extent of his brother's injuries, and returned now to Fili's battered face.

"No." It was denial and plea both. "_No_." Kili reached out and seized his elder sibling by the shoulders, giving him a fierce shake. "Don't you dare! You can't do this to me, Fili. Not now. Wake up. _Wake up_!"

Fili's head rolled loosely on his shoulders but his eyes did not open, leaving Kili crouched at his side, his hands fisted in the rags that were all that was left of his brother's tunic, a lost expression on his face.

"No," he whispered again. "No, _please_…"

"Kili," Bilbo said haltingly, hands hovering, but not daring to touch, uncertainty on his expressive features. "I don't know how to…"

An arrow skittered across stone mere inches from where the halfling was kneeling. Kili's head shot up at the same time as Thorin's did, marking the trajectory of the next barb too late to do anything to stop it. It would surely have impaled the eldest heir of Durin had a hand not seized him and hauled him back a step, a shield thrust between him and the shaft so that the arrowhead struck the reinforced wood with a dull 'thud'. It was with shock that he recognized his rescuer, the name escaping his lips in hoarse surprise.

"Northri?"

"I would say well met, cousin, but now is hardly the time for friendly greetings." Northri had only to nod and his shieldsmen were forming up around them, creating a physical barrier around the fallen prince and his kinsmen as the rest of their comrades set to driving those of the enemy who had dared to stay into a full retreat. Northri left them to their task, striding forward until he stood above the two brothers, his eyes falling upon Fili as grimness overtook his features.

"Captain!" he called over his shoulder. "You are needed."

The warrior in question took only seconds to appear, a younger, blond dwarf at his side, neither needing any further direction from Northri as to where their attention should be focused. Thorin stared at the elder of the two newcomers in shock, for here was another face he had never thought to see again.

"Bain?"

"It has been a long time, Thorin," Bain replied without looking up from his work, an art he remained just as skilled at as he had proven to be in the wake of dragon fire and the death that had followed it. "Would that this reunion had been under better circumstances." Tying off the end of one bandage, Bain extended a hand to the dwarf acting as his assistant, if a rather pale-faced one. "Nordri, pass me another dressing, lad."

"But…" Now was not the time for questions, he knew, but they escaped his lips regardless, confusion and exhaustion disarming his usually guarded tongue. "How?"

"Prince Kili is an eloquent petitioner," Northri answered him, and Thorin's eyes flickered to where his younger nephew had drawn his brother's head into his lap, eyes closely watching every movement Bain made. "He made a plea we could not refuse, not whilst still retaining our honor."

It was a day for the unexpected, it seemed, and Thorin honestly did not know what to feel. Relief was stymied by the severity of Fili's wounds, and yet he could not be ungrateful that rescue had come, nor could he quite comprehend the unexpected individuals who had borne it. Kili he could understand, for, even if the young dwarf would not risk so very much for his sake, Thorin knew the lengths either brother would go to for the sake of the other. Bilbo's presence had been a surprise. After the way he had treated the hobbit, he would have thought the Company's burglar glad to see him gone. Beorn's involvement he did not understand at all. But for Northri and Bain to have come also, with an army at their backs…

"I thought you dead," he said aloud.

"Not yet." Northri was tense, despite the easing conflict around them as the last of their foes fled before death could grasp them, and Thorin frowned, wondering what danger had not yet been realized. "But there is time yet for that to change." Turning away from Thorin he addressed his trusted friend, "Bain, how is he?"

"Where there is life there is hope," the captain told him, meeting Kili's frightened gaze as he said gently, "And your brother draws breath yet." He looked to Northri again, then, adding, "But he needs more supplies than I have here, and better trained hands if he ever wishes to walk again."

Walking again was the least of Fili's worries at present, Thorin knew, but the words had been phrased as they were for Kili's sake, and he would not gainsay them.

"Then go," Northri commanded, accepting the sword that was passed to him by one of his men and pressing it upon Thorin. "We shall guard your retreat."

He had scarcely finished speaking before a low, deep drumbeat sounded all around them, reverberating up through the stone in a rhythm no dwarf who had ever heard the war song of the orcs could have mistaken.

"What was that?" Bilbo asked uneasily as the noise faded, only to sound again before the last echo had truly faded.

Beorn answered the hobbit's words with a fierce growl, his eyes narrowed, emphasizing the scars that ran across his snout, but it was Northri who offered a verbal response.

"That was the end of our reprieve," the dwarf stated, tightening his grasp on the blade in his hands. "We must move, and swiftly."

As if in answer to his words another noise joined the quickening beat of danger. A far off baying, distant, yet growing nearer, until the chorus of howling voices was unmistakable. Bain's head came up the moment the sound began, alarm showing clearly in his eyes.

"They've set the packs loose!" he exclaimed in horror.

"And worse things will not be far behind," Northri agreed. "Come, we must make haste!"

Bain nodded curtly, swiftly moving to gather Fili's limp frame in his arms. Thorin started forward, ready to help, but Bain did not so much as stumble under the elder prince's weight, a walking example of the sturdiness of his race. Kili remained on the floor only as long as it took to retrieve his own blade from where Bolg had thrown it, and then he was standing alongside Bain and Nordri, that same look of set determination on his face.

He would need it, Thorin knew. They all would, if they hoped to make it out of here alive.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Bilbo had not been present for the flight through Goblin Town during which the Goblin King had been slain and the eternal wrath of his followers earned, but he had heard the tale enough times around the campfire, recited by the Company's youngest members in an effort to wheedle his own tale of escape from him, to know that Gundabad was far more of a death trap than the Misty Mountains had ever been. He had never thought that he would learn to recognize the particular cry of a hunting warg pack that had picked up a scent, but clearly the knowledge had been absorbed at some point on his journey, for he recognized the distinct change in the noise all around them just as soon as everyone else did, and did his best to keep up as a pace that had already been hurried all but doubled.

Northri had split his forces the moment they were out of the arena, taking a third for himself, and sending the rest with Gorin and Galar down different pathways to try and distract their enemy, and perhaps divide some of the superior numbers that were being gained over them. Beorn had wordlessly placed himself at the head of Northri's party, forging a clear path for Kili and his nearest companions, none of whom, save perhaps Nordri, were unscathed. Fortunately Bain did not seem overly affected by his injuries, and, though Kili's arm hung loosely at his side, his legs were working well enough. Thorin Bilbo believed was upright through sheer stubbornness, and he inwardly wondered what would happen if the dwarf was actually required to use the borrowed sword in his hand.

As it turned out, though, swords did not serve any of them particularly well.

The pathway Northri had chosen through the mountain consisted more of intersecting tunnels than the death defying walkways of the higher levels, a safer route than that they had used to get in, but only insofar as the sturdiness of the rock around them. For tunnels meant a restriction to what even the dwarves could see in the darkness, and none, not even Beorn, sensed the danger until they were right in the midst of it. Three unarmed cave trolls had been bad enough, and now Bilbo found himself trapped in a room with at least seven of the formidable giants, all armored and armed, with every intent of crushing dwarf and hobbit alike underfoot.

The result was nothing short of chaos as the dwarves scattered in an effort to avoid falling hammers and maces and Beorn hurled himself at the nearest troll in a violent rage. Bilbo found himself able to do little more than dodge certain death, desperately trying to keep track of his friends in the panic that had broken out. Burdened as he was, Bain had not even tried to fight, choosing instead to dive across the room towards the one tunnel that stood unguarded. Thorin and Kili had inevitably done their best to follow him, and Bilbo copied them both. It was no easy task, weaving back and forth between friend and foe alike, but by some miracle they all made it to the comparative safety offered by the more enclosed space, hesitating as one the moment they were out of immediate danger.

"Come on," Bain urged, when he saw that they had stopped. "We must hurry."

"But what about…?" Whether through loyalty to the task appointed him or good instincts in self-preservation, Nordri had followed them, and now stared back through the arch into the room where his grandfather and many others were still fighting for their lives.

"They are buying us time," Bain snapped. "So we had best not waste it. Come!"

Acting on his own command the dwarf captain turned and began running again, the fact Fili was still cradled in his arms meaning both Kili and Thorin were sure to follow. Nordri hesitated a moment longer, but turned away at last, his face twisted in agonized indecision even as he made his choice.

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

Gundabad may have provided a home for orcs and goblins for a fair number of years, but it was still a dwarf kingdom, and little change had been made to the architecture its original inhabitants had designed when constructing it. Unfortunately for the small band of dwarves and one hobbit now fleeing through its lower hallways, this was not entirely to their advantage. Dwarf kingdoms were wrought solely of stone, so there were no rope bridges to cut off pursuit, nor traps to make from shoddy goblin walkways. There was only flight to save them, and even that was an uncertain thing, for their speed was compromised by their wounded members, and their sense of direction had been heavily impeded by the detour they had been forced to take to avoid being caught in the trap that had been laid for them.

Not even that had thrown off their pursuit, however, and the howls of their hunters trailed ever at their heels, drifting closer and closer despite the winding path Bain took in an effort to throw them off. They were running out of time, and Kili found himself dearly wishing for Gandalf's presence. The wizard had always had a knack for snatching them right out of the fire before the heat of the flames could do more than singe them, and that particular skill of his was needed now more than ever.

Before him, Bain skidded to a halt, and as Kili worked his way forward from the rear of the group he realized what it was that had caused the abortion of their flight. The passageway before them was blocked by recently felled stone, no doubt the work of the trolls set loose to end them, though being able to guess who was responsible did not aid them in getting past the barricade.

"Is there a way around?" the archer asked, turning to their guide.

"Yes, but it is too far," Bain said darkly, shaking his head, his breath heavy as he adjusted Fili's limp weight in his arms. "We'll never outrun them."

"Then we'll fight them off," Nordri answered him with something even Kili recognized as brashness. It would have been a difficult task had they all been whole and hale. With so many wounded, it was impossible.

"We can't," he answered. "Not a whole pack."

"Can we double back?" Bilbo asked from the back of their small group. "Rejoin some of the others? Find Gandalf, maybe?"

His was not the only mind that had been wondering at the wizard's absence, then. But thinking of Gandalf had failed to summon him, and Bain's response was far from encouraging.

"If I knew _how_ to double back, perhaps," the captain replied. "But I barely know where we are as it is."

"We need to keep moving," Thorin offered his own opinion, staring into the darkness behind them. "We may not be able to outrun them, but they'll catch us all the sooner if we remain where we are. Perhaps there is somewhere near here where we might mount a tenable defense."

"Water," Kili said suddenly, whirling on Bain. "We need water to throw them off our trail. Are there any streams nearby?"

"If we can reach the forges, maybe…"

There was no certainty in his suggestion, but with the sounds of pursuit growing ever nearer there wasn't much of a choice. In silent unity they started out again with what haste they could manage, Bain directing Bilbo and Thorin to the nearest set of stairs that would take them down another level. Descending the steps slowed them even further, and Kili, who was walking backwards to watch their rear flank as they reached the bottom, spotted the shadows on the bridge above them, the moment their enemy set foot upon it.

"Bain…"

The captain understood his one word warning, and did his best to quicken their pace. "Take the next left," he instructed their leaders. "Through the crafting halls. There should be another way down through there."

The pathway he had dictated took them across a stone drawbridge whose chains had long since rusted away to dust, but they were barely halfway across when the doors on the other side burst apart. Bilbo's cry of dismay was echoed silently by all of his companions as they laid eyes on yet another enemy, one they could not hope to best in a fight.

"Back!" Thorin bellowed over the mountain troll's enraged roar, a command that was being followed before it was even spoken. "Back!"

Unlike the trolls they had faced on the road to Rivendell, this one was armed, and their small company had barely made it out of reach before the monstrous creature brought a great hammer crashing down upon the bridge. The impact made the weakened structure tremble with enough force to throw Kili off his feet, and the second blow shattered the stone where it met the landing on the opposite side of the divide. With a horrible, creaking groan the bridge began to tip downwards, the smoothness of dwarf stone working against them as they all scrambled to find handholds. Kili locked the fingers of his left hand into the gap between the bridge and the rock off which it swung, holding both himself and Nordri, who had wrapped his arms about Kili's left leg in panic, aloft. Above them the troll brandished its hammer again, but the slope of the drawbridge's incline had swung them out of reach, and, without hurling its weapon away, it could do nothing more to reach them. The same could not be said for the warg pack bearing down on them with all the excitement of a hunter whose prey was surely caught, and Kili tightened his one-handed grip, desperately trying to haul himself and Nordri back up onto solid ground.

He had barely raised himself an inch when the bridge groaned again in ominous warning, the only sign it offered before the steep incline it had become turned to a sheer drop. Kili's hand was almost crushed between the two separate stones as the gap closed between them, but instead his fingers slipped free, and he had time to do little more then cry out in surprise before he was hurtling through space along with the rest of his companions.

**AN2: Grark is not an OC, but rather an unnamed character who took my fancy and I have whom I have therefore christened and utilized. I can't link anything here because FF net is annoying like that, but if you do a google search for 'Goblins can read?' thetimelesscylce tumblr, it should be the first link that pops up.**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: I'm going to start out this author's note with a shoutout to the anons who have reviewed. I can't reply to you guys personally, but just know that you are awesome and I appreciate you taking the time to write a comment before you depart to places unknown.**

**To all readers/reviewers, I have now started my studies for the year on top of working week days and weekends. As such I'm expecting my spare time to be shaved down somewhat dramatically. Updates may be slower as a result, but I'll do my best to keep pumping them out.**

**Also, this chapter will likely push the realm of plausibility. One of the problems I've had with editing the old story is that this was actually only part of a larger tale that spanned Fili and Kili's childhood and then right up into the War of the Ring. Certain established lore has not actually been established as a result of me not finishing those earlier tales and posting them first, so I've had to improvise in places. I am also almost literally falling asleep at my computer desk right now, so I can't make any guarantees as to chapter quality.**

**Regardless of that, read, review, and enjoy!**

**Cheerio,**

**Cheekyrox**

**/THE HEART OF EREBOR\**

**ACT II**

**-The Lost Kin-**

**Chapter 19**

Thorin felt the cold before he realized what it was he had struck. A chill that seeped its way through every barrier, burrowing bone deep, swathing him in an icy blanket. The white waters rose around him and he choked on his shocked inhale as water filled his lungs. For a moment shock overrode his senses and he flailed wildly in panic, but then his head broke the surface and clarity returned.

The fall that had threatened to kill them all through distance had been broken by the rushing stream below, a small mercy, for the current was fast and relentless, churning around rough rock and broken stone in a frothing mass that made it almost impossible to stay afloat, and harder still to espy his companions. In truth the best he could hope for was to keep himself from drowning, and even that was difficult, his tired limbs unwilling to put up a fight against the rush of the stream.

The stream's bed was narrow but deep, altered long ago to feed water to where water was needed. The banks were close enough together that he could reach out and grasp the stone ledges, but the surface proved too slippery to retain a hold upon, and his fingers scrabbled fruitlessly in search of a crack or crevice. The current was relentless, tearing him away before he could make himself secure, and his head was more often beneath the churning, eddying liquid than above it, his eyes blinded by more than darkness, and his strength slowly seeping away as the water's frigidity drained the last of his failing reserves.

His fading sensed were awakened in a rush when he struck something, the impact reverberating across his chest as he instinctively seized a hold of the smooth wood that had brought his headlong flight to a sudden halt. A hand was grasping him by the collar even as his fingers slipped from the delivering stave, dragging him bodily from the water and depositing him without ceremony upon the ground. He lay there for several moments, limp, exhausted, and absolutely frozen, but it was not in his nature to submit to the trivialities of physical limitations, so he heaved himself upright as soon as his arms felt firmer than jelly, and stared in disbelief at the wizard fishing the last of his companions from the water. Gandalf's staff was wedged between two rocks on either side of the stream, creating a barrier for the waterlogged company to grasp onto, and it was only once he had hauled Kili and Nordri onto dry ground that the wizard retrieved it, hastening to where Bain was leaning across Fili, checking for signs of life.

Thorin's heart misgave him then, for, if the fall and subsequent soaking had weakened him so much, what had it done to his already direly wounded nephew? Surging to his feet he stumbled towards where Gandalf was now crouched alongside the anxiously gathered companions, his eyes closed as he passed a hand across Fili's deathly pale features and muttered foreign words beneath his breath. The response was instantaneous as Fili jerked violently, then began to cough and retch, Bain quickly rolling the elder prince onto his side as his lungs violently objected to the water that had taken up residency inside them. Fili barely awoke for the ordeal, his eyelids fluttering frenetically as he fell back upon the stone, breaths rasping in his chest, but the movement lasted only a second before he was still again.

And yet he was still alive. By some insane and unforeseen chance they all were, and the sudden weakness brought on by absolute relief nearly floored him again. They were not yet beyond the reach of danger, however, so he locked his knees instead, and returned his gaze to the wizard he dearly hoped knew where they needed to go from here.

"Your little detour may have slowed your pursuit," Gandalf was already speaking, addressing his words to Kili, who was kneeling at Fili's side, one hand maintaining a tight hold on his brother's lax arm. "But the enemy is not far behind. We must move quickly, before they close the distance."

"We're on the wrong side of the mountain." Bain answered him, frustration in his voice. "We'll never make it back to the eastern halls. Not unmarked."

"Is there no way out on this side?" Bilbo asked through chattering teeth.

"Of course there is," Bain retorted. "But it means a day's travel south beneath the Misty Mountains, and even then we'd be exiting the caverns in the Ettenmoors. There are no settlements there that would be able to offer us aid."

"Then we go back," Kili stated firmly. "We find a way around."

"You can't _will_ us a way out, lad," Bain told him, not unkindly. "I do not know my way around the mountain well enough to stray far from the main pathways, and those will be crawling with the enemy by now."

The archer's head swung around, face upturned to the tallest among them. "Gandalf?"

"I am a wizard, dear boy, not a miracle worker." Gandalf shook his head, and Kili's face fell. "I cannot fight an army for you, big or small, but I may be able to keep this one alive long enough for us to risk the longer path."

"We have no supplies," Nordri reminded them pointedly. "They all washed away."

"Ah," Gandalf said. "But you forget, my young friend, that I did not partake in your impromptu bath. I am carrying enough to get us to our destination, if we are careful."

"And what happens when we get there?" Bain demanded, even though the tone of his voice betrayed the fact he knew they had no other options. "I mean no disrespect, Gandalf, but the Ettenmoors are hardly overflowing with friendly creatures. We will as likely be killed out there as we will in here."

"Perhaps," the wizard replied, his eyes drifting back in the direction they had come from as the noise they had escaped through their downstream flight suddenly started up again. Water may have disguised their scent, but the stream could only have taken them in one direction, and their pursuers knew this. "But if you would rather live a few more days, I suggest we make haste."

There was really no argument that Bain could make to such a suggestion that did not sound like folly, and the dwarf warrior knew it. With a dark expression on his face he scooped Fili up into his arms again, though with less ease than he had first performed the feat, and then addressed the company as a whole.

"This way," he said. "Let us see for how much longer we can cheat death."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

They did not travel far. They could not. Even the relatively unwounded members of their small group were exhausted, and Bilbo, who was more than fed up with water and being wet in general, did not even want to imagine how Thorin and Kili must be feeling by the time Bain called a halt. The dwarf warrior was trusting that Gandalf's decision to collapse the tunnel entrance behind them would delay their pursuit long enough to allow them to rest without inviting undue danger upon themselves, and Bilbo sincerely hoped that trust was not misplaced. His last experience with adventure had involved a lot of running to escape certain death, and this little quest of Kili's was shaping up to be much the same.

They had no fire, which was a shame, because his clothes were still horribly damp and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from clacking together, but the glow of Gandalf's staff illuminated their resting spot well enough, allowing Bilbo to take in the bedraggled picture they painted.

Bain appeared to have fallen asleep the moment he lay down, his breaths heavy and loud in the darkness, just short of outright snoring. Nordri, the least injured dwarf among them, had volunteered to sit with Gandalf to keep watch, though Bilbo was not sure whether that act was motivated by a desire not to sleep or a desire to pester the wizard as to whether or not he had seen sight or sound of the young dwarf's family. Kili was pressed against the wall, his head bowed so that his dark hair shielded his features, but Bilbo was fairly certain he was awake, closely watching his brother where Fili lay cradled in his arms, still breathing, but otherwise lifeless. Thorin had done as Thorin always did, and, had it not been for the state of their company, Bilbo might have been able to convince himself they were still on the road to Erebor, with the exiled king propped against some rock or tree or whatever happened to be available, because apparently lying down to sleep was not something he did very often, and even when he did lie down he rarely seemed to actually be sleeping. It was no surprise to the hobbit, then, when the glow of Gandalf's staff revealed the dwarf sitting upright and very awake, his eyes trained on his nephews, and the haunted expression on his face only accentuated by the pale, white light.

It was not a look he had seen often, and it was that thought, along with the recollection of the last time he had seen Thorin wear that selfsame expression, that prompted him to rise stiffly to his feet, cross the distance between himself and the Company's once-leader, and sit himself down without a single word. He earned himself a startled glance from the dwarf in question for his efforts, supposed he could understand why Thorin might be surprised, and promptly said the first thing that popped into his head.

"Are you alright?"

The answer to his question should clearly have been 'no', that much he could tell simply by looking at the dwarf, who had never cut anything less than an imposing figure before the current moment. There was very little to be found imposing about how Thorin looked now though, pale and drawn and _weak_, though Bilbo would never have thought to use that word when describing the exiled king before. Regardless of what the answer should have been, Thorin seemed incapable of offering one at all, and instead replied with a question of his own.

"What are you doing here, Master Baggins?"

"Helping Kili to save you both," he answered immediately, not missing a beat. "Though I confess we don't seem to be doing a particularly good job of it."

Thorin made a noise of irritation, moving one hand in an abortive movement as he said, "But _why_? Why are _you_ here? After what happened in Erebor…"

It was a loaded question, and addressed all that Bilbo doubted any of them were truly ready to face. Thorin was staring at him now, though, eyes hard and demanding an answer, so he gave the best he could.

"Because if I hadn't come – if _Gandalf_ hadn't come – Kili was planning on going by himself." He made no mention of Legolas or Tauriel or even Beorn, the people Kili had unwittingly and unintentionally drawn to his side without even really trying to. "Besides, from what I understand, what happened at Erebor was due to the curse of that treasure, and I do not see how one can be blamed for being cursed."

"Bilbo," Thorin spoke his name heavily, emphasis on his next words. "I would have killed you."

"But you didn't." Through Kili's intervention or Gandalf's did not really matter, the act had never been carried out, and the fact that it had been attempted… Well, Bilbo had spent months on the road with the Company, time enough to get to know them all as well as he possibly could, and he knew, with a sense of certainty that would not be shifted, that Thorin had not been himself upon the wall that day. In his mind, the gold sickness of Erebor had all but taken on an identity of its own, and it had been that enemy he was trying to vanquish when he approached Kili with his mad plan to take the Arkenstone to Bard. That foe he had failed to overcome when Thorin had not come back to his senses. "It's over and done now, regardless, and I say what's in the past should stay there."

"No." Thorin shook his head in disagreement. "It should not. The past is a lesson, Master Baggins, and it is not right to sweep it out of sight for convenience's sake. I wronged you, without cause or thought for the services you so graciously offered me and mine throughout the duration of our time together, and for that… for that I am truly sorry, though I know simply feeling regret cannot possibly atone for the way in which our time together ended."

It was a far more humble apology than that he had received after the disastrous encounter with Azog in the Misty Mountains, heartfelt and not cloaked in a scolding that somehow morphed into a compliment and apology raveled into one. Because this was not simply regret for having doubted Bilbo's ability to defend himself and his place amongst the traveling adventurers, something he himself admitted had been well founded. No, this was different. This was contrition felt for an act Thorin was truly ashamed of having ever committed. For which he felt guilt. At least, that was what he saw in the dwarf's expression, if his time spent in the exiled king's company had rendered him as any sort of authority on the matter.

"I don't believe it _has_ ended yet," he said aloud, breaking the tensely expectant silence that had fallen. "Besides, I am not a dwarf, and I do not simply hold grudges for the sake of holding grudges." Thorin snorted at that. Bilbo was all but convinced it was not out of actual amusement, but more because Thorin had reached the point where laughter was the only option left on the spectrum of reactions that were at least mostly appropriate. "Anyway," he continued, brushing such thoughts aside. "The point is it is all forgiven, else I would not be talking to you right now, would I?"

"You are generous." There was more gratitude in that single utterance than Bilbo had heard from any of the dwarves on their entire journey, save perhaps Kili in the aftermath. "I do not deserve it."

"Well, that's the funny thing about forgiveness, isn't it?" he remarked, leaning back against the tunnel's wall and deliberately not cringing at the way the movement made his damp raiment cling to his back. "It doesn't have to be earned to be offered."

**/NASTYLITTLEHOBBITSES\\**

They were moving again long before any of them were truly rested, trudging through tunnels that were a strange mixture of dwarf work and goblin additions, and which still smelled heavily of those who commonly used the underground routes. It was hard going, and now that their hunters were not on their very heels Kili's mind had the unwelcome opportunity to take stock of what new damage had been inflicted upon his already wounded body. He could barely feel his right arm, the fingers a mere tingling mass on the end of a dead weight that was currently swinging off a shoulder screaming bloody murder. He had ignored the advice of every healer who had given caution about using the damaged limb, and now he was paying for that carelessness, using his left arm to hold the right to his chest in an effort to alleviate the throbbing ache of retribution his shoulder had unleashed upon him. The rest of him was not faring much better, and he knew he must be sporting at least a half a dozen new bruises, without making mention of the fresh injury that had been dealt to his neck. He did not know what it was that made the orcs of Bolg's line want to strangle him so much, but he could have done without the repetition of the initial experience.

The most frightening thought, however, was that, despite all this, he was still in better health than his brother. Fili still had not stirred, not even when Bain changed the dressings on his leg shortly before they set out, and, even with the combined efforts of the dwarf healer and the wizard, Fili was swiftly developing a fever that threatened to finish what blood loss and pain alone had not yet accomplished. They were too far away from true aid, too great a distance from safety, and Bain and Gandalf may think they were being subtle in their silence, but he knew. He _knew_ what those speechless exchanges of grim looks meant.

Fili was slipping away.

After coming so far and trying so hard, Kili was still doomed to fail.

He kept walking regardless, because there was nothing else to do, and because some small part of him still wanted to throw logic and reality aside and believe that there was still a chance. That he was owed one last miracle, as if those he had been granted already were not more than he deserved as it was. But this? Granting him the hope that he could save his family only to have it then ripped away from him? It was the utmost cruelty, and the blow that may well and truly knock him to the ground and keep him from rising again. The very idea terrified him, and so he stayed always within arm's reach of his suffering kinsman, all but heedless of his companions, and certainly not paying attention to his surroundings.

He did not see the light blooming before him until he was stepping through the exit, setting sunlight flooding his eyes and all but blinding him. He raised a hand to shield them, staggering slightly, then stood and stared out across the bleak lands into which they had emerged. The Ettenmoors had never been tamed, not by elf nor man nor dwarf, and standing on their edge and staring out across the desolate land that was their heart, Kili could see why. Surely nobody would choose to live in such a place by choice save trolls and creatures of their ilk. Bain was right, they would find no aid here, and by the time they reached Rivendell – to his knowledge the nearest place where they could expect to find shelter and sanctuary – it would be too late.

His heart sank, his hopes dashed into the ground, and then he froze, staring in wild and honest disbelief at the saddled and bridled horse currently drinking from the small river that ushered forth from the mountain roots, and the rider standing alongside it, gazing back at the ragtag party that had just emerged from the overgrown, stone entrance with an equal amount of shock. For a moment they all simply stood there, none quite sure how to react, and then the cloaked rider was stepping forward, tugging away the mask that covered the lower features of his face as he spoke, his words addressed to the wizard in their midst.

"Mithrandir?" The face and voice was human, even though the title itself was that more commonly used by elves than men, and Kili blinked, still trying to decide if he was truly seeing what he was seeing or if this was all a desperate illusion conjured by his frantic mind. "What on earth…?"

Gandalf, to the surprise of all, burst out laughing.

"Alatair!" he greeted the openly bewildered human warmly. "Never have I been so glad to see a familiar face in such unexpected surroundings! We are in dire need of your aid, my friend."

Surprise fled from the human's grey eyes to be replaced by something close to fond exasperation. "Of course, Mithrandir," he answered smoothly. "Only you would appear out of nowhere to demand aid without explanation."

"There is no time for explanation, I fear." The mirth was gone from Gandalf's voice as he stepped aside, motioning Bain forward. "We have wounded among us."

Alatair's eyes alighted on Fili almost instantly, but they remained there for only a second, and then he was turning, hand raised as he signaled without words to companions none of the party could see from their current location. Four more riders swiftly appeared in response, clad as Alatair had been in brown cloak and mask, only their eyes visible, so that they blended neatly into their surroundings.

"It is not safe here," Alatair addressed them all. "If you are willing, we will take you to our camp further down the valley."

"Your camp?" Kili would have said yes in a heartbeat, caution be damned, but Thorin chose now to break the silence he had been keeping thus far, suspicion in his tone. "What are rangers doing camping in the Ettenmoors?"

"What are dwarves doing beneath the Misty Mountains?" Alatair countered.

"It is a long story," Bilbo offered, obviously trying to avert an argument, and the rider nodded.

"I have no doubt, but the time to exchange tales is not a luxury we have. I am offering you aid, Master Dwarf, whether or not you choose to take it is up to you."

"We'll take it," Kili said quickly, before Thorin could so much as utter a sound.

"Then come," the man commanded. "You have little time to waste, and none of us will want to be upon these slopes once the sun has set."


End file.
